


A Heart of Paper Cranes

by missmichellebelle



Series: abc au challenge [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blind Date, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Firsts, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Slice of Life, Snapshots, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9781241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: In Japan, there is an ancient legend that promises a wish to anyone who folds a thousand paper cranes.Yuuri has given Victor twenty-three. It seems a shame to stop now.





	1. one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Lavender <3
> 
> and part of my [ABC AU challenge](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/156146564275/abc-au-challenge): **O** is for **origami**
> 
> wow, okay, you guys ready for this? I'm fucking ready for this.
> 
> this idea was born in a Five Guys when I made a paper crane out of a napkin, and I was like, "wouldn't it be cute if every day a couple knew each other, one of them gave the other a paper crane?"
> 
> so. that's what this is. 41 days of paper cranes that spans three years, and then an epilogue. there's a potential I might add days??? but idk. we'll see.
> 
> there will definitely be more characters, but they won't be playing too large of parts so... I see no point in tagging them, sorry. 8D;
> 
> this story is set in LA and I really, really, _really_ want to include pictures of the cranes in actual real locations. the café that this chapter takes place in does not have a real life counterpoint (right now), but I do want to use real locations and such so. here's hoping, right?
> 
> and um, yeah, okay, I hope you guys like it. YAY FOR UNRELIABLE, ANXIETY-RIDDEN YUURI. gotta love my smol son. <3
> 
> EDIT: tfw the ao3 preview lets you use emojis but then you publish and it EATS YOUR FIC. sorry if you happened to open this within the first .2 seconds it was posted. x___x
> 
> EDIT 2: replacing Phichit and Yuuri's text conversation with a generated iPhone message image because I roll that way. but mostly because the format doesn't work on mobile, like, _at all_. also this thing is riddled with typos because I don't proofread before I post and I'm an impatient pile of trash and therefore don't use a beta. I will probs proofread tomorrow, aside from a few, uh, horrendously noticeable ones (fish instead of wish, Michelle, really???)
> 
> EDIT 3: I was taken to a café on Melrose that fits the vibe of what I was going for with the café their first date takes place in, so have altered a few details to fit it as well as added in a picture! hurray! I don't mention the café by name in the fic itself, but it's called Stir Crazy. <3

In hindsight, tea was a Very Bad idea. Not so bad as _coffee_ , of course, but Yuuri generally avoids coffee, mostly because it tends to aggravate his anxiety. Which is currently, infuriatingly active, making his bones vibrate in his skin, and what caffeine is in the half-cup of English Breakfast he’s had is making it _worse_. When he wraps his hands around the circumference of the paper cup, his fingers are trembling.

He takes a deep breath, and presses the home button on his phone, making the screen light up. 6:56pm.

Definitely should have done something herbal.

Definitely should have worn a different shirt.

His phone has barely dimmed when he taps it awake again, swallowing thickly. 6:57pm.

Definitely going to get stood up.

Definitely shouldn’t have let Phichit talk him into a _blind date_.

Definitely—

“Hello.”

Yuuri jerks so hard that some tea sloshes up and out onto the white plastic lid, and he pulls his hands away quickly before they can cause any further damage.

He looks at his phone. 6:58pm. He takes a settling breath, looks up, and is thankful for it. Apparently, that breath was his last.

“Are you Phichit’s friend?”

This is _definitely_ a mistake.

*

“When was the last time you even went on a date?”

This bookstore is not big enough considering that no amount of artfully dodging between the shelves has allowed him to lose Phichit. Then again, Phichit is like a blood hound when he wants to be.

So Yuuri is deploying the only other tactic he knows—ignoring his best friend entirely. He pulls another book from the shelf, more to block Phichit’s evaluating stare than out of any kind of interest.

“You know what, you don’t even have to answer, because we have been friends for six years, and unless you really _do_ have a secret fiancé, you’ve been on _one_ date, and—”

“That wasn’t a date,” Yuuri argues, exasperated enough to finally break his silence. Even then, he keeps his voice down, despite the fact that this is a bookstore and _not_ a library.

“Exactly. So you’ve been on no dates.” Phichit makes a zero shape with his hand, leveling Yuuri with a look that is simultaneously one of concern but also judgement. But it's gone just as quickly as it came, wiping away as Phichit brings his hands together in front of his mouth, the gesture pleading despite the easy smile that graces his face. “Just give it a shot. He’s apparently a real catch, and he’s friends with Chris! You remember Chris, right?”

Yuuri has a vague memory of someone introduced to him in a too-crowded bar while he was halfway to an anxiety attack from _being_ in said bar. Either way, being friends with someone whose face Yuuri can’t even recall isn’t exactly something he would consider a vote of confidence.

So he turns away and walks further down the shelf, eyes flicking lazily over the titles as Phichit scrambles after him.

“Yuuri.” His name comes out as a slight whine. “If you hate it, I’ll call you half an hour in and you can use me as a reason to leave.” Phichit crowds close, doing his best to take Yuuri’s attention away from the book spines. “We can go to Little Tokyo.”

“Racist.”

“You and I both know that’s the only reliable place to get authentic Japanese food.” They both know that's not true. Yuuri could easily counter that there are dozens of other places he could name outside of Little Tokyo, especially since they go to school right next to Sawtelle, but… Well, he _does_ like it there. Phichit frowns finally, closes his eyes, and when he sighs, it sounds like defeat. That’s enough to catch Yuuri’s interest—Phichit rarely lets on that he’s losing. “I’ll clean the bathroom for a week.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows raise, but he simply plucks another book from the shelf, flipping it over to read the back.

“Two weeks.” There’s a tinge to Phichit’s voice, and, wow, he must be getting desperate. Yuuri surveys the book with contemplation, reading absolutely nothing of the description before turning to his best friend.

“A month,” he counters, and Phichit gapes at him in surprise, although it isn't long before it morphs into absolute delight. Yuuri has the sudden, sinking feeling that he gave in far, _far_ too soon.

“You drive a hard bargain, Katsuki, but I accept.” He holds out his hand, and Yuuri reluctantly seals the deal with a shake, his resignation hung over his shoulders like a weighted shroud. Phichit whips his phone out of his back pocket. “I’ll let Chris know you’re down for Friday at seven.”

“What will my poor, secret fiancé think?” He grumbles monotonously, sliding the book back into its nook on the shelf. Phichit chuckles, fingers flying over his screen. “If you needed someone to go on this date so badly, why didn’t you ask someone who’d actually be willing? You know _everyone_. I’m sure you could have found a candidate without offering servitude.”

Phichit _never_ cleans the bathroom. Yuuri isn’t even sure if he knows how. It’s always just been one of Yuuri’s chores, and it’s never bothered him. The thought of not having to do it for a month, though…

He’ll have to make sure Phichit _actually_ cleans it.

“Ah.” Phichit smiles, unabashed and unashamed, finishing his text with a flourish. “I already told Chris that you were going _weeks_ ago.”

“Phichit!”

He laughs. “It’s okay, Yuuri! You’ll be fine!”

*

Yuuri is absolutely, one hundred percent _not_ fine.

He’s just consciously aware of the fact that his mouth is open. He’s probably gaping. He’s sure he would stop, but he’s forgotten nearly all of his motor functions suddenly and so the act of closing his mouth has gone from marginally difficult to basically impossible.

The silence is like another presence between them. Not just a single presence, but an entire crowd, huddled right there at the small round table that separates Yuuri from one of the most beautiful people he has ever been blessed enough to lay eyes on.

It stretches, and the look of charming confidence that adorns his blind date’s face ( _it has to be him, there’s no way it’s_ not _him, but how how how is it him?_ ) starts to slip, certainty turning to doubt.

Yuuri’s heart beats in his throat.

“Or—”

“Yes,” Yuuri blurts, the word so sudden it nearly comes out in Japanese. It feels like he’s answering a question that was posed hours ago. His breathing is too rapid, making his chest ache, and he bows his head, nearly bumping his chin against the table with how low he goes. “I-I’m Phichit’s friend.”

He winces. A normal person would have given their name. Introduced themselves.

But a normal person also wouldn’t be making themselves light headed with the pace of their breathing, and wouldn’t be bowing like they’re meeting the Emperor (…in a country where bowing isn’t even customary).

Maybe he’ll just leave. He’ll realize that this is some sort of mistake and will just walk away while Yuuri’s eyes are on the table, so he doesn’t have to watch.

Inadequacy swells like tar on the back of his tongue, thick and heavy as it drips down his throat and into the rest of his body.

Why would Phichit _do_ this?

“Oh.”

He’s still there, and, what’s stranger, he sounds… Relieved?

“Thank goodness.” There’s a slight lilt to his words, like a childhood accent long since rounded and ground down by the California coastline and the lights of Sunset Boulevard. “I didn’t see anyone else who—how did Chris describe you?” Yuuri glances up just in time to see a long, slender finger tap contemplatively against perfectly shaped lips. “Ah, yes.” Those lips break into a triumphant smile that makes Yuuri’s stomach feel like it’s going to _erupt_ , and he drops his eyes to the table again. “ _Very cute, very Japanese, glasses_.”

Yuuri can feel flames ignite beneath his skin, no doubt painting his neck and ears a noticeable shade of red. He pushes self consciously at the bridge of his glasses. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn them. He could have worn contacts, instead. Never mind that he doesn’t _own_ contacts, and kind of hates them, he would have acquired some if he’d known he was being set up with an actual male model.

(Well, maybe not actual, but it is a possibility. Yuuri is rapidly realizing that he knows absolutely nothing about this date other than the fact that it’s taking place in a café at seven on a Friday. Phichit hadn’t been forthcoming with any details, and Yuuri hadn’t thought to ask. Yuuri never thinks to ask.

So, really, this is all his own fault.)

Suddenly, there are fingers gentling caressing the tip of his chin, lifting until Yuuri’s eyes lock with a shade of blue that reminds him of the winter sky.

“True on all three accounts, really.”

The eye contact holds for one, two, three seconds, before Yuuri hears his brain _screaming_ at him and his body responds, his back slamming so hard into the back of his chair it’s a miracle he doesn’t topple backwards. The look that follows him is one of utter surprise, but then that charming smile is back, looking almost playful as the hovering hand drops to splay against the tabletop.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Remember? Yuuri can feel the confusion skewing up his face. There is no way he has ever seen this person before in his life. He would have remembered. The man in front of him is not someone he would have been quick to forget, even if he’d just seen him at a glance.

He lifts his hand again, and Yuuri manages to embarrass himself _further_ by flinching away from it this time, but… He isn’t touched again. Instead, the hand is extended between them as an offering.

“I’m Victor.” The smile, if possible, becomes more blinding. Yuuri is pretty certain no one’s smile is supposed to be that utterly perfect. He’s sure that people are starting to turn and stare because they have never seen anything like it before, and Yuuri honestly wouldn’t be able to blame them. “Victor Nikiforov.”

His hand is soft, and slightly cool to the touch, and that moment—when their hands clasp, Victor’s fingers curling ever so slightly around Yuuri’s, the pressure in the squeeze small yet significant—feels almost frozen in time, surprisingly more intimate than when those same fingers had been a determined touch against his face.

In the space of that moment, Yuuri forgets his manners, and that generally he should be introducing himself in kind.

“Ah.” Hand still held, Yuuri dips his head in a bow again, this time much more quickly and much less severe—an echo, a remnant, a reflex, even though he hasn’t lived in Japan for over half a decade. “Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Yuuri.” Victor hums his name, squeezing his hand. He draws the vowel out for far too long, and _thank god_ he didn’t try to pronounce Yuuri’s last name, and yet… Yuuri finds it doesn’t bother him all that much. Victor says his name like it’s familiar, and Yuuri almost wants to replicate the situation, to see if Victor’s name sounds just as at home in his own mouth.

He doesn’t.

“A pleasure to formally meet you.”

Yuuri doesn’t realize what Victor is doing until he feels the brush of soft, dry lips against the ridge of his knuckles, like this is some sort of historically romantic meet-cute and not a cliché coffeeshop blind date.

His face is so hot he feels like he’s suffocating in it, and yet he still somehow manages to stammer through his own _nice to meet you_ , jerking his hand back into his personal space, fingers closed in a fist like he can maybe hold onto whatever just happened.

“I see you already got something to drink.” Victor gestures to the cup of tea Yuuri had almost spilt all over himself, sounding slightly dismayed by its existence.

“Ah, yes, I was… Early.”

An hour early. Whatever is left of his tea, it’s no doubt tepid.

“Punctuality.” Victor’s face blooms with a smile. “An admirable quality.”

It’s potentially one of the strangest compliments Yuuri has ever received, and yet it still has him ducking his head and averting his gaze. He doesn’t dare say that it’s less punctuality and more anxiety. The thought alone already sours Victor’s words before they’ve fully settled in the air between them.

“Well, can I get you anything else? A pastry?”

“Oh, no. No. I, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Victor’s voice is like a coo, his fingers dancing against the table, precariously close to where Yuuri’s other hand is resting. He watches them as they move closer, like the fins of a shark circling their prey. “A cupcake, a cookie? Something… Sweet?” The back of his nail glides against the bone of Yuuri’s wrist, and Yuuri snaps his lips closed tight before he yelps, hand drawing in towards his body. He shakes his head, vehemently, and Victor chuckles quietly, slipping away with the promise of _I’ll be right back_.

When his shadow no longer falls across the surface of the table, some of the tension leaks out of Yuuri’s shoulders, and he looks up and watches Victor’s retreating back. There’s a part of him (a large part, the majority, even) that expects Victor to make a beeline for the door, but instead he meanders to the back of the café where a small line has formed, eyes roving in contemplation over the menu boards above.

After a few seconds, he glances over, and Yuuri’s body goes still—he’s going to think Yuuri is so weird for staring, he’s definitely going to leave _now_ —and Victor smiles. He even gives a little wave with it, and then his attention shifts to the bake case and the plethora of foods it offers.

And he doesn’t leave.

Why isn’t he leaving?

Yuuri quickly grabs his phone, looking up one more time to see that Victor is, indeed, still in line and not gone forever, before unlocking it.

Yuuri groans, digging his hand through his hair. It’s not like he can make it look any worse, especially when he’s going to look like a dumpster fire next to one Victor Nikiforov no matter what he does. In fact, he’s pretty sure everyone in this café is already silently weighing in on how unbalanced of a couple they make.

(Not that they’re a couple, just—people might be drawing that conclusion.

Actually, on second thought, they’re probably more confused as to why someone like Victor would ever even speak to someone like Yuuri. That’s a lot more likely.)

The urge to apologize is sudden, kicking in like an unavoidable gag reflex. He’s completely and wholly underwhelming in every possible way, and that’s just _now_. Soon they’ll probably start talking because Yuuri is pretty sure that’s what people _do_ on dates, and… And Victor is going to realize how utterly disappointing Yuuri Katsuki actually is.

He wishes Phichit understood that Yuuri doesn’t go on dates for this reason (among a plethora of others). If he doesn’t date, he can’t disappoint someone. Because he always disappoints people. He always lets them down.

But Phichit is a good friend, and Yuuri knows he would brush aside all of those fears with a sweep of his hand. Yuuri wishes the action was permanent. That it wasn’t just a balm, but a cure.

Maybe, if Yuuri was better at explaining all of this, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

A date is one thing, but why had Phichit thought that _this_ was a good idea? Why had Victor’s friend, Chris (who apparently had met Yuuri and knew at least a little bit of what he was about to get Victor into) subject him to this? Who looks at someone like Victor and thinks, “you know who would complete that devastatingly beautiful picture? Yuuri Katsuki”?

(No one, that’s who.)

The next time Yuuri has the presence of mind to remember where he physically is, to take actual stock of his body, he’s shredded two beverage napkins to ribbons and he feels light headed from how close to hyperventilating he suddenly is. How long has he been inside his own head? What time is it?

He checks his phone. 7:05pm.

Not long, not long, okay. He needs… He presses a hand to his chest, trying to focus on his breathing and not on how sharp the inside of his throat feels. He takes a sip of his cold tea, as if it might help, might ground him.

(It doesn’t.)

There’s two napkins left on the table. One is mostly damp, having caught the brunt of the spillage from his tea earlier, but the other… It’s just a plain, white, slightly textured napkin, but Yuuri reaches for it, focusing on it far too intently. It’s square, but is it perfectly square or—

He folds it in half on the diagonal. Not quite perfect, but… Close enough. Good enough. He breathes.

Unfolds it, presses the opposite corners together, creates a sharply creased **X** across the napkin. Lengthwise. Across. Presses in at the corners, folds those pieces in, pulls these ones up.

He breathes.

For a few moments, Yuuri loses himself in the familiar motions. It’s muscle memory, the dexterity instilled through constant practice as a young child, sitting in his mother’s lap as her hands curled over his, showing them how to move. His breathing slows, and his heart calms down, and Yuuri pulls a paper crane out of a napkin.

(“I’m going to make a thousand,” he’d told his mother, all those years ago where they sat at the family kotatsu. “And then I can make a wish.”)

He wonders, in all the years his hands have fallen into these same comforting gestures, if he’s gotten anywhere close.

What would he wish for?

“What’s that?”

Yuuri doesn’t startle nearly as badly the second time around, but he does manage to hit the table with his knee, hurting himself and spilling more of his tea in the process. A few drops land on the wing of his crane, soaking in and staining parts of it a weakly colored brown. He watches the stain travel, spider-webbing through the napkin’s texture and warping the material where the liquid weighs it down.

It would be easy to crush the crane with his palm, to brush it away with the rest of the napkin scraps and into the trash.

He probably has made a thousand paper cranes, but he’d never know.

Yuuri’s never kept any of them.

“Origami?” Victor’s voice is bright with interest around the word his foreign mouth butchers slightly, cut through only by the scratch of Victor’s chair sliding out. Yuuri stares at the crane, but before he can make up his mind to throw it away, Victor is plucking it from the napkin wreckage. Yuuri’s eyes follow it. “You made this?” Victor stares at him, eyes wide and curious in a way that would be more fitting on a child than a man of his ilk.

After a few moments of compulsory hesitance, Yuuri nods, eyes suddenly critical of his tiny bird. One of the wings is torn at the end rather than pointed. The napkin hadn’t been perfectly square, so none of his points are sharp. Some of the folds overlap. The beak is an absolute disaster, and then—

Victor’s fingers slide against the stained wing, fascinated.

“Out of a napkin?”

It’s not judgmental, like Yuuri had been expecting. If anything, he almost sounds… Surprised? Impressed? None of the words make sense where he’s trying to fit them, but he can’t think of anything else. It’s not even that good of a crane.

“Uh, yeah, the, uh, the napkins are almost perfectly square, so…” He fidgets, shifting his shoulders. Most of his friends have seen him fold a paper crane. A lot of them even kept the ones he made. But those had been like a performance. He’d been ready for them. He’d had the proper paper. Those cranes were made with the possibility that they could be kept, every crease, every point, every fold— _perfect_.

This crane is not one of those cranes. This is a garbage crane. This is a crane born from anxiety. The only reason it exists is that it kept Yuuri from collapsing his lungs with the strength of his oncoming anxiety attack.

It’s not perfect. It’s ugly. And it doesn’t deserve the awe with which Victor is looking at it.

“A paper crane out of a napkin.” Victor sounds quietly delighted. “A napkin crane.” His smile is giddy, like what he said is particularly clever. And all Yuuri can do is watch as the crane twists back and forth by its tail between Victor’s thumb and forefinger, biting down on the need to ask for it back.

This is how Victor will remember him: spilt tea and an imperfect crane.

Victor sets the crane down finally, resting it gently against his own paper cup so that it lays on its wing rather than balancing on the body. “Where did you learn to do this?”

It’s not a question Yuuri is expecting.

He doesn’t have many friends, but most of them are American. And they seem to think that people just come out of Asia knowing origami.

(Yuuri had learned to make other things just for fear of disappointing people with the fact that the only thing he _did_ know how to make was a crane. He can do a frog, and a butterfly, and a rabbit, but cranes are still his favorite.)

So he’s expecting it even less when he answers.

He doesn’t tell Victor _why_ he had his mother teach him. That seems a little too embarrassing. But he does tell him about the other animals he can make.

“You said that Chris described me as _Very Japanese_. Is that what he meant?” Yuuri skews his eyebrows together. Is that how people think of him? As Very Japanese?

Victor laughs, and the sound is like honey down Yuuri’s spine.

“I’m not sure exactly what he meant. It makes me wonder if he describes me to people as Very Russian.” He smiles, good-naturedly, clearly not at odds with his friends rather stereotypical descriptors.

“Ah, that’s it,” Yuuri says more to himself than to Victor, but Victor still hums inquisitively. Yuuri presses his lips together, averts his gaze, shrugs his shoulder. “I could tell you had a bit of an accent, I just… Couldn’t tell from where.”

“Really?” Victor’s face washes over with surprise. “You can tell? Most people can’t. I moved to the States when I was six, so most people are oblivious to it.”

“One foreigner to another.” Yuuri gives a small smile, and something passes over Victor’s expression like a wave. It’s gone before Yuuri can look at it too closely. “So… Are you?”

Victor rests his cheek against his knuckles. “Am I what?”

“Very Russian?” Yuuri speaks as if imitating someone. The laughter that comes out of Victor is softer and hardly there at all, and it steals all the breath out of Yuuri’s lungs.

“Well, I can speak full sentences with particles and everything, and I don’t eat borscht.” He smiles. “I do have matryoshka dolls, though, and I do love the cold.” Something sparks behind his eyes. “Oh, and I’m a communist.”

For the third time in less than twenty minutes, Yuuri almost spills his tea again.

“Really?”

“No.” Victor’s smile stretches wider, and then they both laugh. Quiet, private, and Yuuri can feel his tension easing—slow, and steady, like helium escaping an air balloon through a needle point. But… It’s easing.

It doesn’t take long for Victor to realize that any conversation to be had will be mostly by his lead. Yuuri’s answers feel forced at first, dragged across his tongue and through his teeth, but no matter how stilted his answers, Victor keeps asking questions. And with every question, the answers come easier.

Maybe because Victor’s questions are simple.

He asks about growing up in Japan. He asks about his family. He asks about coming to America, and about school. But he skirts the hard questions, the ones that Yuuri keeps anticipating. He’s sure he sees them sometimes, just behind Victor’s eyes, sitting right on the tip of his tongue, but then they’re gone and Victor is moving on to his next topic.

So Yuuri talks about Japan without talking about being homesick. He talks about his family without saying why he’s been gone for so long. He talks about coming to America without explaining why he moved so far away. Victor never asks if he’s running from something. He never asks if Yuuri feels regret. He never asks if he’s happy.

And Yuuri is grateful. Because those are the same questions that keep Yuuri up at night, that tumble through his head as he searches for sleep and can only find the darkness of his ceiling. Even then, he doesn’t know the answers.

In contrast, Victor seems more than willing to lay everything bare for Yuuri to look at. He answers questions that Yuuri doesn’t even ask, and the ones that he does manage to piece together are elaborated on until Yuuri forgets what his original question even _was_. It almost feels like Yuuri can press in any direction and find no resistance, no walls, but he also suspects that maybe Victor is just better at this than he is.

But Victor had left Yuuri’s walls in tact, so Yuuri doesn’t go searching for his.

He keeps the questions he does work up the courage to ask completely generic.

Victor is originally from St. Petersburg. He doesn’t visit as often as he’d like. His parents are divorced, and he has one step-sibling. He’s a freelance events coordinator, which doesn’t even sound like a real job, and Victor is quick to explain that it isn’t—he’s essentially an overpaid party planner.

He also has a full-sized poodle that, 45 minutes into their date, is being shown off to Yuuri via Victor’s phone. His name is Makkachin, and for every picture that Victor has, there is a story that endears the dog quickly and firmly in Yuuri’s heart.

He stops himself from saying _I can’t wait to meet him_ more times than he’d like to admit.

“He likes the beach. I don’t know if he has a preference, but I think the one by the pier is his favorite, because—”

Yuuri’s phone starts to vibrate violently where it’s been sitting, forgotten, in the corner of the table, and both of them turn to look at it in surprise. No one ever calls Yuuri—he’s infamous for never answering.

“Sorry.” Yuuri shoots Victor an apologetic look, and then glances at his phone curiously. It’s Phichit. Which… Doesn’t make any sense, because Phichit is the one who _sent_ Yuuri on this date, and—

Oh.

Right.

The escape clause.

Yuuri can feel his heartbeat through his stomach and down to his toes. He draws his bottom lip between his lip, hesitating.

“Aren't you going to answer it?”

Yuuri looks at Victor, who doesn’t even seem vaguely irritated by the interruption. He’s smiling, eyebrows lifted curiously, fingers curled against the pale expanse of his cheek. The sight, frankly, makes Yuuri’s heart hurt slightly. His eyes flicker to his phone again. It won’t keep ringing for much longer. It will go to voicemail soon. If it does, will Phichit call again? Or will he assume it means that Yuuri has no intention of bailing on the date?

He looks at Victor again, watching as he tips Yuuri’s paper crane back and forth with the point of his finger, letting it rock from one wing to its center and then to the other wing, before the process reverses and repeats.

Yuuri’s heart is thundering so loudly that its all he can hear, and he’s hyperaware of the way blood pulses through his fingertips as he picks up his phone and… Turns it off completely. He expects his breath to rattle out of him, all broken pieces and nerves, but it comes out on a smooth exhale.

“No.” He sets his phone back on the table, face down. “It’s fine.” He glances at Victor, suddenly feeling shy, and drags his lips together. “It can wait.”

This is where Victor picks up their conversation, mid-sentence, like he never stopped, only he… Doesn’t. When Yuuri has scrounged together enough courage to look him in the eye again (it takes several Moments, nearly a dozen deep breaths, and a brief internal monologue of encouragement), he finds Victor staring at him like…

Yuuri’s not sure. His grasp of the English language fails him. No one has ever looked at him the way Victor is currently looking at him, and Yuuri has no idea how to describe it.

Whatever it is, it makes Yuuri’s heart hiccup in his throat.

“I, um.” He closes his eyes, centers himself. “You were saying before? About Makkachin and the beach?”

When he looks again, Victor is blinking back to himself. He looks about two seconds away from shaking himself into composure—if people like Victor did such obvious acts of recalibration. Instead, he smiles again, and this one is different still. Yuuri is sure he’s seen a hundred different smiles since Victor walked up to the table, up to him, and this one is… It’s not bad, or forced, or anything like that.

He thinks, maybe, it’s a little warmer.

“Right.” His voice curls around the word, fondly. “Makkachin.”

They sit in the café until one of the employees starts bussing the tables, flipping up chairs even though there are still customers in the lobby. Victor is laughing softly, telling Yuuri in vague details about his last client, when said employee drops a chair and it clatters against the tile flooring, drawing everyone’s attention and pulling Yuuri and Victor from whatever bubble they had come to exist in.

Yuuri’s eyes widen.

“Are they closing already? What time is it?” He picks up his phone, only to remember that he shut it off… He’s not sure how long ago now. He frowns at it, holding down the buttons to turn it back on.

“Ah… Nearly 10,” Victor muses, and Yuuri looks over at him, to see Victor's own phone in his hand. “Seems like we’ve been here for quite awhile.”

Looking at their table now, Yuuri can tell. He’s had two more cups of tea (some fruity green blend this particular café offers, and then a peppermint herbal), and Victor had his own cups of chamomile. There’s a plate from what had been a very delicious slice of lemon bundt they had shared, covered in Yuuri’s napkin shards and small crumbs of cake that their forks had left behind. The crane is still next to Victor, slightly perkier now that its wing has dried, and it’s hard to believe that Yuuri made it nearly three hours ago.

A surprised laugh escapes his throat, and he blinks rapidly.

“Yeah.” It comes out breathless, and it makes him want to laugh again. He can’t seem to fit the time he spent with Victor into three hours. There’s no possible way it’s been that long. It feels like they just started talking.

“What’s your phone number?” Victor asks without preamble, and Yuuri has become so used to answering questions—easier questions, and much harder ones—that he prattles off the number without thinking about it. It’s only a moment later that he realizes that Victor is typing it away into his phone.

Yuuri’s phone vibrates, signifying that it’s powered on once more, and then begins to vibrate furiously.

“Ah!” Yuuri grabs it off the table, trying to muffle the noise, but Victor is already chuckling.

“I promise those aren’t all me.” There’s a pause in the vibration, and then there’s a final one a few seconds later. “But that one was.”

Yuuri glances down at his phone. He has… Wow, a _lot_ of messages from Phichit, but the most recent is from an unknown number, and simply has a purple heart emoji.

Yuuri isn’t sure what to say, pressing his phone to his chest and looking at Victor helplessly. If they truly have been talking for three hours, Yuuri’s words have finally dried up.

“Let me walk you out, before the staff starts glaring at us anymore than they already are.” He grins, already scooting his chair back, and an employee descends on their table to quickly start clearing away their cups and trash. “Oh, wait, not that.” Victor just manages to scoop up the crane before it gets taken away, cupping it carefully in one hand, and Yuuri feels embarrassed as he stands.

“You—” He swallows. Shrugs. “You don’t have to keep that. It’s not… It’s not very good.” The flare of discomfort feels foreign after it’s been absent for so long, and Yuuri twists his hands together in front of him.

“I know I don’t have to.” Victor’s voice is gentle. “I want to.” His smile floods Yuuri’s vision, and he realizes that he’s bent down in order to invade it. As much as they’ve been talking, the table had stayed firmly between them. Even when they’d been eating the bundt, and their fingers had casually brushed together, it had never seemed deliberate and invasive. This is the closest Victor has been since the beginning of their date, and Yuuri forgets how to breathe all over again.

His fingers are warmer now, as he pushes some hair up and away from Yuuri’s eyes.

“If you want, you could make me a better one tomorrow.”

“T-tomorrow?” Yuuri is astonished he’s able to speak at all, especially considering his brain is certainly short circuiting from Victor’s small, affectionate touch.

“Tomorrow.” Victor’s words are firm, serious. Yuuri swallows. “Will you have lunch with me tomorrow?”

His lips part, and his tongue is limp and useless in his mouth.

Something is telling him to say no.

Something bigger is making that impossible.

Yuuri gives a small nod, and Victor’s eyes crinkle warmly with his smile.

The closeness ends. Victor steps back, his hand falling away only to confidently take up Yuuri’s own and lead him from the café. There is a lightness to his gait that seems to match the erratic, giddy firework spectacular currently taking place inside Yuuri’s ribcage.

“Do you need a ride home?” Victor asks, once the door to the café has closed behind them. It’s early April, but the night still holds a bit of chill. It’s nice, especially considering the dry, hot nights that will inevitably follow as summer gets closer.

“Ah, no, I drove here.” His car is parked just around the corner, thankfully tucked from view. If Victor can afford to live downtown, chances are he probably drives something nice. No need for him to see Yuuri’s used Honda. “But thank you.”

They come to a stop at the curb, skirting the soft glow shining from the twinkly lights that decorate the edges of the café’s storefront windows and onto the sidewalk. Yuuri’s eyes keep jumping to where Victor’s hand is still wrapped firmly around his, so it’s a little startling when he glances up and finds Victor facing him.

“I guess this is where we say goodnight, then.” He reaches up, brushing pieces of Yuuri’s hair from his eyes again, and Yuuri’s free hand curls against his chest, the bite of his nails into the meat of his palm the only grounding factor in what could so easily be a dream.

How did the night get here? Yuuri’s not even sure. The last several hours feel like a blur, the line between points hard to find and retrace. It just… Doesn’t seem possible. Not that he just went on a blind date and survived, but that he… Enjoyed it. That _Victor_ enjoyed it.

(Yuuri assumes. Victor wouldn’t be inviting him out to lunch if he hadn’t enjoyed himself, right?)

That’s probably the hardest thing to justify.

Victor had stayed. Victor had, potentially, had a good time talking to and getting to know Yuuri. Victor wanted to see Yuuri again. _Tomorrow_.

There’s a voice in his head, that sounds annoyingly like Phichit, that says, _See? That wasn’t so bad, right?_

 _Ugh_. Phichit. He’s going to want to know every detail of the night, and his smugness is going to be their third roommate for the foreseeable future.

But, well… Yuuri looks down at Victor’s hand in his again, and can’t help the blushing smile that dances from cheek to cheek. It’s very likely that it’s worth it.

“I guess so.”

“Yuuri.” Victor takes a step closer, his fingers pausing against the angle of Yuuri’s jaw. “This is a date.” There’s something sparkling in Victor’s eyes that makes Yuuri’s stomach roll over on itself. “Don’t I get a kiss goodnight?”

Yuuri’s eyes widen, and he knows he rocks back a step, even without consciously meaning to. The cacophony in his head leaves little room for the fear that he just insulted Victor, that he just ruined everything, the anxiety a mere prickle of spikes underneath the bells and whistles and the _ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod_ ’s.

But Victor just smiles, slightly softer, and his finger travels over Yuuri’s bottom lip before it falls away.

“Maybe not tonight.” But Victor’s face still hovers close, too close for Yuuri to be held responsible for basic bodily operations such as breathing, speaking, and keeping himself upright at the same time. He almost fails at all three when Victor’s lips press, chaste and sweet, against Yuuri’s cheek, his breath warm and tea scented when he whispers, “Goodnight, Yuuri.”

And then he’s gone. He steps away, his hands leaving Yuuri behind, gives one last devastating smile, and then turns and walks down the street. Yuuri watches him go, one hand pressed carefully to his recently kissed skin, and belatedly remembers to inhale.

Victor crosses the street, his figure cutting a striking silhouette under the streetlights, and Yuuri watches him as he does a spin, a gleeful laugh escaping him, and… Yeah.

Yuuri might not be doing spins in the middle of the street, but he can’t stop smiling, heart rabbit quick where it beats beneath his palm, every fiber of his being remembering that single point of contact and the way it still seems to to tingle and spark even now, like a star pressed permanently into his skin.

He lets out a quieter laugh of his own, pushing his hands into his pockets, and heads for his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [come visit me on tumblr!](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com)  
>   
>  you can also [read, reblog, and like this fic on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/157326639390/a-heart-of-paper-cranes) <3


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri wonders if this is the trick. If he’s just like Scheherazade, only instead of a thousand and one unfinished stories, he has poorly made paper cranes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I was floored by the response to the first chapter—thank you to everyone who left a kudo or a comment!
> 
> I have good news for you guys, because my best friend is hardcore championing this fic, and not only tries to carve out time for me to sit down and write it, but has been taking me on adventures all around LA to get inspiration. aka if I let this fic die or go unfinished, he might just kill me.
> 
> that being said, woah, an update within a week of the first chapter going up??? I don't want you guys to think that is like, the norm.
> 
> especially because this chapter is basically the same length as the first one, and I totally went into it going, "there's no way I can make this chapter 6k." seems I proved myself wrong. but, uh, yeah, I don't??? I can't say this will be the norm for this fic.
> 
> I have pictures now! and places! I went back and tweaked some things in the first chapter now that I found a café to base it on (I don't mention the name, but it's called Stir Crazy), but most importantly. pictures. I'm very excited about the pictures.
> 
> (I also changed some things about Little Tokyo being the only source of authentic Japanese food. I'm new, okay! I didn't know about Sawtelle! both a reviewer pointed this out to me, and my Japanese friend like beat me over the head, so!!!!)
> 
> if any of you live near one of the SoCal Salt and Straws, I suggest trying to go before February ends. their 24 blackbird matcha with mint chocolate ganache is literally heaven in a cup. *___*

Yuuri is watching Victor Nikiforov step out of a plum colored Mini Cooper and can’t remember exactly how he got there.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. Yuuri could, if pressed, recount his disaster of a morning in near perfect detail, although he would really rather forget it entirely. Maybe it’s not so much the how he got there as the _how is this even happening?_ Because he has been unable to come to any decisive conclusion since he’d closed his car door the night before and the entire dreamlike state he’d been floating around in lost its pastel edges, turning dark and doubt-filled with his anxiety at its epicenter.

People like Victor do not date people like Yuuri.

He has a Bachelors of Science, he would know.

(Never mind that his degree is in _computer_ science —it still counts, okay.)

That morning, in between hustling Yuuri into the shower, picking out an appropriate second-date outfit, and assuring him for the hundredth time that _no, last night wasn’t a dream_ , Phichit had taken him by the shoulders and given him a firm shake followed immediately by a hug.

“You deserve this,” he had said. “And if it really feels too good to be true, just… Go with it. Don’t question it. Let it happen. What’s that thing Americans say? Don’t look a horse in the mouth?”

It had been enough to make Yuuri laugh at the time, helping ease the coiled tension in his spine, and as he watches Victor remove his designer sunglasses and tuck them into the breast pocket of his jacket, he tries to remind himself of that.

He has no idea what a horse’s mouth has to do with any of it, but Phichit is right. He shouldn’t look at it.

“Yuuri,” Victor greets, movie star smile and all, and Yuuri wishes there was a fence or something nearby that he could wilt against. He’s momentarily worried for his knees, sure that if Victor keeps smiling at him like that that they will certainly give. He hopes that whatever Victor has planned for them, it will mostly require sitting. It had been a lunch invitation, so the chances are good that chairs and tables will be involved.

Victor is looking around, as if the scenery around them is fascinating, and then his gaze finds Yuuri again, rooting him to the spot.

“Have you been waiting long?” He asks, his smile softening into one that’s a bit more manageable to look at directly. He keeps moving closer, and Yuuri has to resist the urge to take four steps back for every one Victor takes forward.

“No, no, I just got here.” If just got here can be translated to _I’ve been here for twenty minutes_ , but, well, anxiety strikes again. That, and parking in Westwood is a _nightmare_. He would have been in a much worse state if Phichit’s O-Chem partner hadn’t snagged a spot for them earlier that morning.

Victor cocks his head to the side, curious and confused, and his eyes flick to the apartment building that stands beside them.

“You don’t live here?”

Yuuri’s eyes must widen comically at the insinuation, but… It’s a fair judgement to make. It would be one thing if he’d arranged for Victor to pick him up on campus, and another to have him come to an apartment building on a residential street.

He almost lies and says that he does. Westwood is a completely posh and respectable place to live, especially for a student. Victor would think nothing of it.

But… Yuuri is an infamously bad liar. There’s no way he could juggle something as complex as lying about where he lives. Especially if he sees Victor again.

(Oh god, there’s a potential that he _might see Victor again_. The idea makes his stomach roll, but it’s hard to tell if the feeling behind it is good or bad.)

“No, I-ah.” He bites his lower lip, shuffles his shoulders. “I live further north.” He gestures to the yellow building beside him. “My roommate’s lab partner lives here, but I thought—” The thing about honesty is that, once it starts, it’s very hard to stop. “Y-you just, you wanted to pick me up, and you live downtown, and I thought—” _Stop, stop, stop_. Yuuri’s words seize in his throat, tumbling and crashing together until they’re big enough to choke on.

Victor’s smile is easy as he makes his last step forward, and he catches Yuuri’s hand, pressing a kiss to the knuckles just as he had the night before, and Yuuri gives up on trying to form any coherent thought whatsoever.

“So you thought you’d save me the commute. That’s very thoughtful of you.” There is something in Victor’s expression that makes his eyes seem to shine, a warmth that winds its way through his words and makes Yuuri want to curl up in them. He finds his body leaning instinctively closer, and his spine goes rigid, hand jerking back into the imagined safety of his personal space as he pulls away from Victor.

“I-it’s nothing.” He stares at the cement, chewing hard on the inside of his cheek, and reminds himself that it’s not so much thoughtful as practical. No need to make Victor drive all the way into the valley just to get him. No need for Victor to see the sort of place that Yuuri can afford to live in, when he knows that Victor lives downtown. No need to remind Victor that he is way, way, _way_ out of Yuuri’s league.

“No, it’s not. We already have a bit of driving ahead of us as it is.” Victor’s voice is still pleasant and welcoming, like Yuuri didn’t just recoil away from him. “Besides, it’s practical.” The echo of Yuuri’s own thoughts in Victor’s voice is almost jarring. “There isn’t much parking where we’re going.”

Yuuri nearly points out how there isn’t much parking anywhere in Los Angeles, but refrains. Victor’s hand suddenly enters his field a vision, another offering, just like the night before. Only this wouldn’t be the brief contact of two people just meeting. Chances are, if Yuuri slips his hand into Victor’s, he will _hold_ it.

The thought alone makes his breathing tip into uneven territory, and he immediately stops entertaining the thought. If he holds Victor’s hand, there’s a good chance he’ll go into cardiac arrest before their… Before their _date_ even properly gets started. He swallows thickly, gives Victor a tense smile, and then steps past him and towards the car. He’s not sure what he expected Victor to drive, but it wasn’t this. He’d expected something sleek and expensive—a Porsche, a BMW, even a Lamborghini. Victor would look fitting stepping out of either one.

And yet this isn’t a horrible juxtaposition, either. If Yuuri had learned anything about him over their hours of conversation the night before, it’s that he is amazingly multifaceted.

He thinks of the purple heart emoji, and huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Yuuri asks, as Victor opens his passenger door for him.

“Have you ever been to Larchmont, Yuuri?” Victor hovers close as Yuuri settles into the grey leather interior, afraid that if he puts his hands anywhere he’ll smudge some immaculate surface. Instead, he busies his hands by reaching for the seatbelt and is slightly thankful for the brief reprieve of having to look at Victor directly.

“No?” Yuuri hasn’t even heard of it, but, in all fairness, he’s not basically a native, the way Victor is.

(Although Phichit would argue that his knowledge of the surrounding area after six years of living there is abysmal.)

“Well.” Victor folds his arms on the top of the door, tipping his head just enough that his hair falls away from his eyes and gives a perfectly unobstructed view of his face. “Then I’d say it’s time we fix that.”

The car door closes, and Yuuri has approximately ten seconds to lean back in his seat and get his heart rate under control.

*

Larchmont, it turns out, is a picturesque street in the nicer part of LA that runs from 3rd to Melrose. It’s only a few blocks away from the café where they had been told to meet the night before, and while Yuuri doesn’t frequent this area of the city, he still wonders how he never noticed it.

He’s not sure what he was expecting from lunch with Victor. He knows the location of their first date had been predetermined by Phichit or Chris (or a combined effort between them), and therefore can’t use it as a jumping off point. Does Victor like small, intimate locations like that? Does he prefer larger restaurants? Fancier ones? Food trucks?

(As they drive up Larchmont Street, however, Yuuri quickly dismisses the food truck idea.)

The feeling beneath Yuuri’s skin isn’t quite unease, but there is something there—almost like anticipation, but without the darker, anxious edge to it, which is… Different. He thanks the car ride, the windows rolled down and Victor offering up more information about himself over the low thrum of the radio. He had asked for nothing in return, and Yuuri had listened as he stared out the window and simply absorbed the world around him.

There’s still nervousness there, and his anxiety is never fully gone, just dormant, but this is something else. Something that has his fingers curling against the dark wash denim that clings too tightly to his thigh, his heart drumming a pleasant, staccato beat against his sternum as he takes in the cute line of storefronts filtering past the window, a perfect backdrop to fashionably dressed couples strolling arm-in-arm and groups of friends laughing together at outdoor tables.

 _Excitement_ , his brain finally supplies as Victor pulls into a parking spot. He’s _excited_.

It’s almost embarrassing how long it took him to figure it out, to filter it out from his body’s usual, high-strung reactions. It has him smiling when Victor comes to open his door, helping him out by the hand like they’re in some sort of fairy tale, and Yuuri wants to laugh, because for him, it is.

If fairy tales took place in modern day California, he is sure he would be living one.

“What?” Victor asks, a smile of his own playing at his lips. It reminds Yuuri of the night before, its warmth soft and intimate like the glow of a candle, and Yuuri’s heart is beating hard, but not in a bad way.

“It’s lovely here,” Yuuri says, eyes dancing around at the ficus tree that towers up beside them. He knew these places existed in the city—not quite hideaways, because nothing is hidden, not here, but places where things are simpler, slower. Where it feels more like he’s walking the streets of a small town than a huge, sprawling urban metropolis. The air isn’t any cleaner, but he can pretend that it is when he breathes deeply.

He is struck, fiercely and suddenly, with an intense wave of homesickness, and has to swallow it down.

 _Not here not here not here, not now not now not now_.

Victor’s hand tightens around his, alerting Yuuri to the fact that he’s still holding it, and when Yuuri looks at him, he has that strange look on his face again. The one that Yuuri can’t quite name. This time, Victor doesn’t seem to realize he’s making it, because he does nothing to cover it up this time.

Instead, he reaches up rather purposefully and draws the back of two fingers over the apple of Yuuri’s cheek, drawing out the flush that is never far from the surface and making Yuuri duck his head.

“Ah—Victor?”

There’s a sound, half a cough and half a laugh, and then Victor mutters something to himself. It doesn’t sound like English, piquing Yuuri’s interest. Their discussion of Victor’s life in Russia, of his visits there and the parts of him that have remained engrained with the culture, had never turned to the language. Yuuri wonders if he can speak it.

“Are you hungry, Yuuri?” Their hands are still loosely clasped together, and Yuuri hesitantly pulls his away, the point of contact a little overwhelming. When he glances at Victor again, he doesn’t seem the slightest bit shocked at Yuuri’s retreat. If anything, understanding seems to linger in his expression, and it’s too much. It might even be harder to handle than the actual act of hand holding.

Wait, Victor had asked him a question.

Hungry… It occurs to Yuuri that he’s actually _starving_. He’d skipped any kind of proper breakfast that morning due to sleeping late and general panic, opting instead to share a package of poptarts in the car with Phichit on the way to campus. He’d been so keyed up that he hadn’t really tasted any of it. Even then, it had been cardboard carbs and empty sugars and Yuuri is feeling it now, his senses assaulted with a dozen different appetizing smells and his stomach whining at him.

He nods, eager, and Victor falls back into his easy smile, like it didn’t take Yuuri an obviously long time to answer such a simple question.

“Good.”

Victor is as unpredictable as he is charming, which might be why Yuuri constantly feels like he’s on his toes when he’s around him. They’d passed several restaurants that ranged from classic, intimate settings with white table cloths and wine glasses, to casual cafés with tables far too close together. Maybe Yuuri is expecting some place like that, some place that fits with the street-in-Paris feel of Larchmont, which is probably why he is completely unprepared when Victor leads him across the street to a Burger Lounge.

They hesitate outside for just a step, Victor shooting a glance at Yuuri that, again, is vastly unexpected. From proposing a second date to kissing him on the cheek, Victor hasn’t shown a hint of reticence. His motions have been fluid and confident, sure in a way that Yuuri very rarely ever is, and Yuuri had thought that it must be his natural state. Victor makes a decision, chooses a course of action, and follows through without a doubt.

So it’s startling that, as they stand outside the restaurant, the line of Victor’s body and the edge of his smile seems to ask, _Is this okay?_ Seems to say, _If you want, we can go somewhere else_.

It makes the smile that comes to Yuuri’s lips a simple thing, his heart feeling surprisingly full as he gives a small nod and says, voice quiet, “I love burgers.”

His steps are easier after that. Like the night before, like moments before in the car, his anxiety quiets again, ebbing away like the tide—a temporary and heartily welcomed reprieve. This time, though, it happens quickly, a rush from his head to his toes that leaves him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, his usual blanket of nerves stripped away to reveal the person who exists beneath it. Sometimes, Yuuri forgets that that person even exists.

It’s scary, but… It’s also calmer. It’s a bit of a nonsensical dichotomy, but… Yuuri will take it over his anxiety’s tyranny.

He supposes there’s a lot to be said for knowing that he isn’t the only one with uncertainties.

*

Victor pays. Yuuri embarrasses himself by insisting that he’ll pay next time.

The food isn’t remarkable—at least, Yuuri hardly remembers anything about it. When he recounts the date to Phichit later, he’ll remember the sound of Victor’s laughter more, the way his long fingers tore his burger into pieces before he ate them, and the way he would listen to Yuuri’s mumbled anecdotes with rapt attention.

That strange, floaty, disassociated feeling returns, and Yuuri can’t help but wonder if its something in the cologne Victor wears, an ingredient in his shampoo. If it’s those soft, secret smiles, the ones that come out unbidden, like Victor forgets he can smile that way. Yuuri wishes he knew. Maybe then he could conjure up the feeling more often.

“Yes, I speak Russian,” Victor finally answers after their food is done and the staff has cleared it from their table. Yuuri feels a little antsy, sitting at a table when they no longer have reason to be, especially when the establishment is clearly busy and every table is in use. He can feel people looking at them, waiting to steal their seats the second they get up, but it’s surprisingly not enough to propel him from the restaurant the way it usually would.

Yuuri doesn’t know what will happen when they stand up to leave. He doesn’t know where or when their time together ends, if the sparkle in Victor’s eye when Yuuri had mentioned a next time guaranteed that there would, in fact, be one. So whatever time he has now, he has to make it count—has to make it last.

And therein lies some of the problem, because for some reason, time with Victor just… Condenses, a hundred minutes feeling like one. It makes him feel a little desperate, clinging to each moment as it’s given to him like it’s the very last one. Like he’ll take one more breath and their time, however long it happens to be, will end and feel too short.

(It will _always_ feel too short.)

Yuuri rests his jaw against his knuckles and wonders how Victor can create such a paradox.

“I’m not as fluent as I once was, and every time I visit Russia, they like to tell me how American my accent is.” He grins and rolls his eyes, transparent enough that Yuuri believes that it doesn’t truly bother him. “But my  _мамочка_ will speak to me in nothing else, and the practice keeps me from losing my grasp on it, so I’m grateful to her.” The Russian endearment curls easily from Victor’s tongue, and Yuuri feels something in him soften. “And you speak Japanese, yes?”

“Ah. Mmm.” Yuuri gives a small nod. He knows his accent is still very pronounced, despite having lived away from Japan for six years. “My roommate—ah, Phichit,” he corrects himself, giving another nod. “He teases me. I slip into Japanese when I’m stressed, or nervous, or excited.” His laugh is light, if a little self-deprecating. Victor’s hand is flat on the table beside Yuuri’s own, a single point of contact where Yuuri’s pinkie finger is pressed to Victor’s index. The touch is enough to make Yuuri’s heart feel like a fluttering bird in the cage of his ribs, but it’s such a simple, innocent thing that he finds it more grounding than nerve-shattering.

“I’d love to hear you speak Japanese,” Victor hums, and Yuuri averts his gaze as the blush rises. “Are you still hungry?” The switch in topic is so quick that Yuuri’s eyes snap back to Victor, confused. Has he lost track of time again? Have they been sitting here for so long that dinner has rolled around?

“We just ate?” Yuuri tries instead, glancing at their empty table, and Victor grins.

“But there’s always room for dessert.”

“Dessert?”

Without notice, Victor is standing, grabbing Yuuri by the hand and pulling him up with him. The noise that escapes him is horrendously undignified and embarrassing, and he stumbles forward, right into Victor’s waiting arms. Yuuri is not clumsy, but he’s starting to doubt his own grace with how much he seems to stumble over himself in Victor’s presence. It’s the closest they’ve been all afternoon, and for a second Yuuri is overwhelmed by how clearly he can smell Victor’s cologne from this close, how he can practically feel his body warmth radiating out from beneath his clothing, and…

Yuuri stumbles back a step, nearly knocking over the table in the process. Victor chuckles lightly, his hand flashing out just long enough to steady Yuuri by his elbow. Like every other time they’ve touched today, the gesture is gentle and fleeting.

“If you need someone to steady you so you stop falling, Yuuri, I’d be happy to help.” The way Victor looks at him makes it very clear that he knows the real reason behind Yuuri’s sudden proclivity for making a fool of himself, and he can feel his blush on his neck now as he vehemently shakes his head. “No? Well, the offer stands.” He gestures towards the door, and Yuuri glances at him shyly before walking past him. People are looking at them, but Yuuri can hardly fault them. Not only had they caused a bit of a commotion leaving their table, Victor is the sort of person who draws the eye wherever he goes. It makes Yuuri’s stomach feel suddenly heavy, a reminder of the strange sight they must make together.

Even with the outfit that Phichit had carefully put together, Yuuri doesn’t hold a candle to the man walking beside him.

Victor falls into step beside him, dipping his body forward slightly to catch Yuuri’s preoccupied stare and smiling. “So dessert?” Victor’s eyebrows raise in that way that opens up his expression, making him look momentarily like an overexcited child. It’s a little adorable, especially with him talking about dessert, but Yuuri can feel the weight of his meal now and isn’t sure dessert is even possible for him. His hesitance must show on his face, because Victor’s face brightens, confidence shining through like a beacon. “Don’t worry if you’re not hungry,” he assures, voice a singsong. “By the time we get there, you will be.”

He starts to reach for Yuuri again, clearly going for his hand or wrist, and then pauses. They’re standing at the edge of the curb, the crosswalk stretched before them, and Yuuri stares at Victor’s hand with his heart in his throat and a million thoughts flying through his head.

_It’s just a hand_ , he tells himself, the pressure of his held breath easing out slowly. He tentatively sets his palm in Victor’s, and is rewarded with such a blinding look of… Of… It can’t be adoration, and yet Yuuri isn’t sure what else to call it. He feels completely stricken by the revelation, but before he can even begin to comprehend Victor looking at him that way, he’s being tugged across the street with all the eagerness of a child dragging their parent to a fairway.

Yuuri had suspected that they’d be loading back into the car, Victor whisking him away to some distant and just as wonderfully charming dessert bar. But by _there_ , Victor means about a three minute walk up the street. Hardly far enough for Yuuri to work off a french fry, let alone an entire meal. But when he sees the winding, partitioned line on the sidewalk and realizes that _that_ is their destination, he can see what Victor meant. By the time they reach the front of the line, their lunch will be a distant memory.

“What is this line _for_?” Yuuri can’t help but ask as Victor carves out a place for them in the queue behind a group of teenagers, and they are quickly followed by several adults at least a decade their senior.

Victor points to the storefront and smiles.

“Salt and Straw, or quite possibly the best ice cream you will ever have.” Victor’s hand is soft in his, his long fingers slightly cold in a way that makes Yuuri want to bring them close, to make them warm. “Trust me.”

It scares Yuuri how quickly and easily he almost says _I do_.

“All the ice cream is made locally, and the flavors are… Different.” Victor smiles like he’s sharing a secret.

“Different?” Yuuri isn’t exactly an ice cream connoisseur. He likes dessert just fine, but he prefers them in moderation and small portions, and not just because he gains weight easily. The desserts in America are just too sweet for his liking. He certainly wouldn’t wait in a line that has to be relegated to the sidewalk just for _ice cream_.

Victor hums.

“Flavors like… Strawberry avocado, or honey lavender.”

“Honey lavender?” Yuuri blinks. It’s not _that_ strange. He’s seen weirder flavors in Japan. It amuses him that people think those sort of flavors are _weird_ and therefore some sort of hipster delicacy, especially considering that most of his American friends don’t understand the appeal of red bean paste (their loss, really).

“It’s good,” Victor enthuses, clearly misreading the bemused tip to Yuuri’s lips. “But the salted, malted chocolate chip cookie dough is my favorite.”

Yuuri can’t help it—he grimaces. Even the sound of that particular flavors makes the inside of Yuuri’s mouth curdle. It sounds so horribly decadent.

“Ah.” Victor’s voice is pleasant, his hand slowly warming where it’s wrapped around Yuuri’s. “You don’t look very excited.”

Yuuri blinks rapidly, hoping the shock of Victor’s observation is enough to wipe whatever discontented look had managed its way onto his face. Victor doesn’t sound particularly put out, but…

“No, no, I—I am excited. Ice cream is good.” Not good enough to wait in line for, but it’s more time that he gets to spend with Victor before the looming drive back to Westwood and Phichit’s invasive questioning.

It makes Yuuri will the line to go more slowly, if that’s even possible.

“You don’t like ice cream?” Victor asks, somehow seeing right through Yuuri’s bandaid fix for the situation. He blanches, eyes casting around as if maybe he’ll find an excuse lying on the sidewalk somewhere, and then he sighs.

“I’m not… A huge fan of sweets,” he confesses, carefully, fully aware that they are surrounded by people that clearly love ice cream if they are willing to wait so long for it.

As Victor said, it must be very good ice cream.

Victor hums again, this time in contemplation, finger tapping rhythmically against his bottom lip.

“We don’t have to get ice cream,” he finally suggests. “I just love coming here, and wanted to share it with you.” Victor is completely earnest as he speaks, and this time, when the warmth of Victor’s words draw Yuuri closer, he lets them.

“No, it’s okay.” His voice is quiet, and he’s staring more at Victor’s chest than anything else. The t-shirt he’s wearing seems completely casual, but it fits a little too properly to be anything but tailored. Yuuri has the urge to touch it, wondering if it feels quite as soft as it looks. “We’re already here, and…” He looks down lower, focusing on the blocked pavement and the toes of his tennis shoes. _And I like spending time with you. I don’t want today to end._

The thought of actually saying anything like that sends Yuuri’s heart into supernova.

It should be predictable, the way Victor lifts his chin up, the way his expression is soft even when he isn’t exactly smiling, and yet it still catches Yuuri by surprise, still causes his heart to stutter and restart.

The way Victor looks into his eyes makes him think that Victor knows _exactly_ what he was going to say.

“You’re right.” His voice is quiet, somehow intimate even in a bustling crowd. He’s so close, fingertips dragging chills down Yuuri’s jaw with the gentle circles they trace there, hand an anchoring pressure where it’s tangled with Yuuri’s. Victor is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, and Yuuri is hyper aware of the part of Victor’s lips and the huff of breath against his cheek and the way his own eyelashes are fluttering.

The thought, when it comes, is devastating.

_He’s going to kiss me_.

The moment hovers, delicate as a butterfly’s wings, and then the teenage girls in front of them start giggling like mad and it passes, blown away on the spring wind and taking Yuuri’s breath with it.

“Let’s see.” Victor moves up in line, bringing Yuuri along like they didn’t just spend an inordinate amount of time in one another’s space, on the precipice of what Yuuri is fairly certain would have been… Something. Right? Had he just imagined it? “They do just have vanilla, you might like that. Or the honey lavender, like I mentioned before, that one is very subtle.” He smiles at Yuuri, head angled towards him like the gesture alone sections off their conversation from all the strangers around them, and Yuuri wants to ask what just happened, to clear up the rapidly growing mass of confusion piling up on top of his brain stem.

But he doesn’t.

He let’s Victor talk uninterrupted, the steady stream of his voice letting the _almost something_ fade into the past.

(Almost. Kind of. To be revisited later.)

“You can try as many as you like, if you want,” Victor continues, and Yuuri briefly forgets what he’s talking about. What is he talking about? Oh, right, ice cream. “And if you don’t like any, don’t get anything.” Victor briefly presses their shoulders together, and it feels strangely like a gesture of good faith. Yuuri returns some of the pressure, accepting it. “It won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t.”

That should be obvious. Yuuri shouldn’t need Victor to _tell_ him that, and yet… It does bring a sense of relief. That not liking this ice cream parlor that Victor clearly loves does not in any way tarnish his opinion of Yuuri. That by not getting ice cream, he’s somehow disrupting the easy, natural grace of their afternoon.

Is the ice cream a metaphor? Is Victor covertly talking about the many times Yuuri has dodged any attempt at physical affection prior to him taking Victor’s hand outside of Burger Lounge? Or maybe he’s talking about the almost kiss. Is he trying to say that if Yuuri doesn’t kiss him that that’s okay?

_There’s a chance you’re reading into this too much_ , he tells himself, his breath leaving him in a sigh that deflates him. Victor sends him a raised eyebrow and a questioning look, but Yuuri just waves his unoccupied hand is dismissal. Nothing, nothing.

He breathes again, grounding. Pushes his lips together, and nods, accepting Victor’s words for what they are instead of what they could be.

When his mind calms down and clears (at least slightly), he chances a glance at Victor out of the corner of his eye and can’t help thinking about the way laughter drifts around them like music, how everything smells like freshly baked waffle cones, and the shuddery feel-good feeling coursing up his arm every time Victor traces a circle into the back of his hand.

Aside from when he’d been eating or giving Yuuri his complete attention, Victor is the quietest he’s been since they met the night before. They’re standing slightly too close together, forced by the confines of the line, and he is a flashing neon presence, impossible for Yuuri to ignore, especially with how firmly Victor is holding his hand, like he’s terrified that Yuuri might change his mind and pull away at any second.

(Which, in all fairness, is perfectly plausible.)

God, Yuuri hopes his hand isn’t getting clammy. Is he sweating? Please don’t let him be sweating.

When he looks at Victor, he finds that Victor is looking away, his face lax as he stares down the street at nothing Yuuri can discern. It’s unusual to see him like that, smooth and brooding, a perfectly sculpted marble statue in his stillness.

Yuuri knows that he can’t be the only person staring.

Victor is the sort of person you have to keep looking at, like maybe he isn’t real and if you look away too long, he’ll disappear. His is the sort of beauty that leaves a lasting impression, but feels more like recalling a dream than a memory.

( _“You don’t remember me, do you?”_ )

“Victor.” The name feels slightly strange on his tongue, and it occurs to Yuuri that, outside of talking to Phichit, he hasn’t said Victor’s name very much in the short time they’ve known one another. Victor turns to look at him, the blank, brooding look in his eyes retreating into something much more approachable.

_Why do you look so lonely?_

The question sits on his tongue, but he bites it down. That wasn’t what he wanted to ask.

(Now, it’s _all_ he wants to ask.)

“Yesterday,” Yuuri continues, glancing away, focusing on a man waiting in line with his dog more than Victor’s current expression. “You said I didn’t remember you.” His eyebrows pinch, and once again he finds himself scanning every memory he has of the last six years. It’s useless, and Yuuri is certain Victor must be mistaken. If they had ever met, Yuuri would know. Victor would standout. It would be _impossible_ for Yuuri to forget him to the point of actual agony.

Yuuri glances at Victor, and there’s a small, slightly abashed smile playing across his lips.

“I was at the bar where you met Chris,” Victor informs him, his voice strangely measured, controlled, like he is carefully composing a story.

Yuuri blinks. He hardly remembers that night, or the whirlwind of people who had been passed in front of him. It had been too much. A deep, pounding bass; raucous laughter; muggy, humid air that suffocated him; the constant press of bodies. Even remembering it makes Yuuri feel a little dizzy.

“You were?” His voice is strained, stretched thin and pitched high, and Victor glances at him. His smile is tight.

“Yes, but, ah.” He seems sheepish again, and when he pushes his hand through his hair, Yuuri is sure that half the people in their immediate vicinity swoon (him included). “I suppose I went a little far, teasing you about not remembering me.” His smile, this time, is appropriately abashed. “We were never properly introduced, after all.”

The pressure leaves Yuuri in a heavy sigh of relief, and he realizes belatedly that he’s been squeezing Victor’s hand. His first instinct is to pull away, pull back, but Victor must sense this, because he gives Yuuri a reassuring squeeze and resolutely does not let go.

“It was raining that night, do you remember?” Victor asks, voice pleasant, and Yuuri does actually remember that. He gives a small nod, and Victor looks away, his eyes getting that distant look in them again. “I saw you outside, standing under an umbrella all by yourself…”

Yuuri had been waiting for a Lyft home. He’d been coming back from a rather horrendous panic attack, and he remembers how soothing the rain had been, the rhythmic pitter-patter against his umbrella helping him breathe.

Victor had been there?

“Ah, Yuuri.” He’s back, eyes fully present, whatever memories of that night quickly and neatly locked behind one of Victor’s invisible walls. “Did you bring me a crane?”

The silence that stretches between them is only heightened by how stock-still frozen Yuuri’s entire body has gone.

“Crane?”

That… Had been the reason for the second date, Yuuri remembers. Because Victor had been insistent on keeping that awful crane he made out of a napkin, and Yuuri had said he could do better, because he could, and Victor had said—

Yuuri does not have a crane with him. He doesn’t even have any paper. He stares at Victor, hopeless and lost, his insides starting to swirl and convulse like a whirlpool.

“You forgot?” Victor pouts at him, his bottom lip dramatically extended. “We’ll have to make do, then.” Victor glances around. “Should I grab you another napkin?”

“A-another—?” Yuuri shakes his head. “No, no—”

“How about a receipt, would that work?”

Well, it _could_ , but it’s not ideal.

“P-paper would be best,” Yuuri says as Victor seems to list every foldable material that he not only has in his jacket pockets but that is potentially available in the immediate vicinity. Even then, he seems to hear Yuuri’s suggestion, and brightens.

“Paper.” He nods, sagely. “Of course. A _paper_ crane.” He chuckles again to himself, and then is reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a very small Moleskin with a black cover. Yuuri stares at it, wondering what on earth it could possibly be for, and then watches as Victor flips it to the back and cleanly pulls a single sheet from the binding. He holds it out to Yuuri. “Here. Paper.”

Yuuri stares at it.

“You want me to make it _now?_ ” He asks, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.

“Of course.” Victor waves the paper around, and they inch further up in line. “Yuuri,” he hums, dragging the vowels. “You said you’d make me another one.”

“Well, yes, but I meant… Properly.” He frowns.

“Then you can give me a _proper_ one tomorrow,” Victor teases, just like he had the night before, and Yuuri wonders if this is the trick. If he’s just like Scheherazade, only instead of a thousand and one unfinished stories, he has poorly made paper cranes.

_A thousand paper cranes…_

“But make one for me now, anyway?” Victor asks, and there’s just that much of a hopeful lilt to his voice that Yuuri finds himself slipping his hand free from Victor’s to take the offered piece of paper.

“Okay…” He focuses on the small sheet more than Victor’s face, finding the straightest edge and beginning to trim the paper into the necessary square with far more intensity than is generally required. “But I… I _am_ going to bring you a proper one tomorrow.” His throat feels raw from the amount of effort such a simple sentence had taken him. Surely he should feel winded by it.

And just like at the restaurant, Yuuri’s face flares at the insinuation that they’ll see each other again. Victor had proposed the idea _again_ , and Yuuri knows, he _knows_ , that there’s nothing to be afraid of here. There is no uncertainty in confirming an invitation he didn’t even extend. There should not be fear, or doubt, or anxiety, and yet…

His hands are shaking.

He sees Victor’s fingers before he feels them, the brush feather light and alarmingly comforting as it travels from the knuckle of his index finger to the soft skin on the inside of his wrist. It should make him shatter into pieces, but Victor is nothing he should be, and the touch holds him together instead.

Yuuri hasn’t made the first crease yet, but when he does, his hands are steady, even as Victor’s touch falls away.

“I look forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do they ever get ice cream??? will Yuuri ever make a paper crane out of actual origami paper???? WHO KNOWS!  
>   
> [come say hi on tumblr <3](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com)  
>   
> you can now [read, reblog, and like this chapter on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/157623984590/a-heart-of-paper-cranes)!


	3. twenty-three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, Yuuri.” Victor’s eyes seem to sparkle, his expression warm. “You never fail to surprise me.”

“We’re not dating,” has become a regular phrase in Yuuri’s vocabulary, although sometimes he likes to change it up and say things like, “Victor and I aren’t dating,” “Victor isn’t my boyfriend,” or, “for the love of god, Phichit, can we stop talking about this?”

He can understand everyone’s confusion, of course. Him and Victor spend a lot of time together. Even when Yuuri has class or Victor has an event, Victor is always sure to carve out at least an hour of his day to physically see Yuuri. Sometimes they go somewhere, but more often than not, they lean against Victor’s car or find a low wall or bench to sit on and just… Talk. There are some days when they don’t even do that much. When Victor brings him a cup of tea and they sit together and don’t say much of anything. Those are the times when Yuuri let’s Victor hold his hand.

Yuuri knows the value of that kind of silence, where words are completely unnecessary, where all you need is _someone_.

It’s astonishing that Victor came to be one of those _someones_ so quickly.

It’s even _more_ astonishing that Yuuri can somehow repay the favor.

He’s glad that he gets to see Victor. His nerves are duller around the edges now, although they aren’t completely gone, but they’re never _completely_ gone. He doesn’t quite understand why Victor wants to spend quite so much time with him, but he finds it easier if he doesn’t question it. And they might alternate who pays, and Victor might call their outings “dates” and kiss his knuckles, and they might hold hands, and more often than not Victor hugs him before he leaves, the warm and engulfing.

Yuuri had not gone into that blind date with any expectations, so the fact that he has Victor in any capacity is beyond anything he would have even thought to ask for.

But they’re not dating.

Because people like Victor do not date people like Yuuri.

*

“Yuuri, you have a car, right?”

Yuuri’s fingers pause on his keyboard, and he glances at his phone where it’s resting on his thigh. He discovered fairly quickly that, if Victor has the choice, he’ll always choose a phone call. Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t text Yuuri nearly constantly, but that if he is able, and Yuuri is willing, he’ll call instead.

In the beginning, Yuuri had not been very willing. Most of the time, he’s still not. But he also learned that talking to Victor on the phone is a lot like talking to him in person—in that, he does most of the legwork in the conversation and Yuuri is only expected to speak up every once in awhile.

In a way, it’s actually less anxiety inducing than texting. The more texts that Victor sends that go unanswered, the more Yuuri finds himself fretting over what to say. It’s much easier, when Victor gives him no time to say anything at all.

The fact that he’s disrupted his waterfall of rambling with a question isn’t unusual, and the furrow between Yuuri’s eyebrows has more to do with the strings of code he’s inspecting than Victor’s inquiry.

“Yes,” he answers, distracted.

“Oh, good, I thought so. Would you come to my apartment tonight? I can reimburse you for gas, of course.”

Yuuri’s hand spasms on the keyboard and he blanches. He definitely just put a semicolon somewhere he was not supposed to put a semicolon.

He pulls his hands into his lap, and then pushes his laptop away across his mattress for good measure. He picks up his phone, sure he must have misheard somehow, and switches it off speakerphone.

“You want me to—?”

“Come to my apartment,” Victor continues, voice perfectly clear and cheerful. There’s an uneven quality to the way he’s speaking and breathing that tells Yuuri that he’s walking briskly wherever he is. “It seems the venue I was working with had a bit of a… Snafu scheduling wise, and it looks like I’ll have to go there in person to handle it.” Victor’s voice gets brighter in a way that doesn’t bring any warmth, and Yuuri finds himself grimacing in sympathy. “So I won’t be able to drive up there today.”

He sounds so _forlorn_ just saying it, like not seeing Yuuri is A Big Deal.

Not that Yuuri doesn’t have his own pangs of disappointment, but, well… He abstains from making plans for those reasons.

If you don’t make plans with people, you can’t be disappointed when they inevitably cancel on you.

“Oh.” The word comes out too round, too hollow, and Yuuri prays that Victor doesn’t notice. “That’s o—”

“So I thought that maybe you could come down here just this once?” Victor barrels on, and there’s that small spark to his words again, that little lift of hope that Yuuri never quite believes is there. “I can pick us up something to eat—I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid—and that way we can still spend time together like we planned.”

In truth, they hadn’t actually planned anything. But they see each other every day. It’s been three weeks since they met, and Yuuri hasn’t only gotten used to it, he’s started _anticipating_ it.

“Oh, and you can finally meet Makkachin!” This time, when Victor’s voice brightens, it’s with honest and unobstructed enthusiasm. “I’ve told him so much about you, I’m sure he can’t wait to meet you.”

Everything is going a little too fast—with Victor, things always seem to go _a little too fast_ —and Yuuri blinks rapidly, trying to keep up with what Victor is saying. His apartment downtown, dinner, Makkachin…

“Victor—”

“Ah, Yuuri, that’s my other line. Probably the venue. I’ll text you my address and the code to get into guest parking. See you tonight!”

The line beeps at him three times, and then Yuuri is pulling his phone away and staring at his home screen.

He breathes.

Victor’s apartment.

 _It’s just a place_ , he tells himself, chewing his bottom lip. _There’s no reason to be nervous_. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes, and pulls his laptop back towards him. He won’t think about it right now. He has a rogue semicolon to find.

*

(“Leaving for your date?” Phichit asks him several hours later as Yuuri buttons up his cardigan and grabs his keys.

“We’re not dating!” Yuuri yells as he heads out the door.

Phichit laughs. “Does Victor know that?”

As usual, Yuuri ignores him—and then promptly thinks about what he said far too much as he sits in traffic.

 _Does Victor know that?_ )

*

Victor greets him in the lobby of his… Well, Yuuri supposes he should call it an apartment building. When Victor had said he lived downtown, Yuuri had imagined an apartment in one of those high-rise buildings that he thinks of when he imagines the Los Angeles skyline. Something that overlooked the world. Sleek and modern and beautiful.

This building is mostly exposed brick and poured concrete, has a grand total of just _three_ floors, and is full of character and history. This is due to the fact that the building was a toy warehouse until about two decades ago, something Victor cheerily tells him as he walks them to the elevator.

“Are we still in downtown?” Yuuri find himself asking. Victor lives on the third floor, and he pauses just outside of a wooden barn door that looks incredibly heavy.

“Of course,” Victor chirps, turning to face Yuuri again. “We’re in the Arts District.”

“The Arts District?”

Victor’s face does this _thing_ sometimes, where it seems to fold around the gentle shape of his smile, the overall look soft and… And _fond_. It makes Yuuri want to wriggle right out of his body and into outer space.

( _Does Victor know that?_ rings in his head, and Yuuri wills it away. If he’s going to overthink himself into a panic, he would prefer it happens later.)

“Poor Yuuri,” Victor says in a singsong that most people would find demeaning. “Downtown has a lot of districts. Arts, fashion, flower, toy, jewelry…” He lists, ticking off his fingers before waving his spread palm dismissively. “We can visit all of them, if you’d like. But not right now.”

Yuuri gives a small, exasperated laugh. It seems that Victor has made it his mission to drag Yuuri to every corner of the greater Los Angeles area, and beyond.

There’s a thumping noise behind the door that draws his and Victor’s attention, and Victor’s expression takes on a whole new softness.

“First.” He grabs Yuuri’s hand firmly again, and squeezes it. “You have to meet Makkachin.” That’s all the introduction Yuuri really gets before Victor is somehow heaving the great barn door open with one hand and Yuuri is suddenly on his back, his arms (and, really, his entire upper body and then some) full of large, warm, chocolate-colored poodle.

“Makka! Sorry, he—”

Yuuri feels a large, wet tongue against his cheek that startles him into laughter, and Victor’s words die off in the sound.

“Hello,” Yuuri coos, bringing his hand up into the dog’s fur. He can feel a tail beating excitedly between the mountains of his knees, and scratches behind Makkachin’s ear as he sniffs all over Yuuri’s chest. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

He glances up at Victor, knowing full well that his glasses are askew from being barreled over, and he’s more-or-less covered in dog slobber. But Victor has one hand curled into the fabric of his shirt over his heart, looking completely enchanted at the sight of Yuuri with his dog.

Yuuri can’t even begin to imagine why.

( _Does Victor know that?_ Phichit asks again, his voice somehow more teasing.)

Of course, _of course_ , Victor knows that, there’s no reason for him to think differently. The way he looks at Yuuri, the way he _smiles_ at him, that’s just… Victor. That’s who Victor _is_. There’s nothing _there_. And the only thing reading into it will do is make everything worse.

“Come on, Makka,” Victor finally says, and the dog is off Yuuri as soon as Victor is patting his thigh, calling the perfectly obedient poodle to his side. Yuuri lays there on the ground of the hallway for a moment, finally realizing how winded he is from being knocked down, but it isn’t long before there are two offered hands and Victor’s smiling face in his line of vision. “Let me help you up.”

Yuuri does. He slides his fingers into Victor’s palms and feels the first real twinges of pain in his back from the fall. But before he can put any energy into picking himself up, Victor has hauled him from the floor, and Yuuri crashes into Victor’s chest at the abruptness of it.

It reminds him of a sunny day on a picturesque street and ice cream that wasn’t too sweet.

“Are you all right?” Victor’s voice is low, concerned, and Yuuri is frozen, warring with how wonderful it feels to be this close to Victor but also how awful it is. He feels strangely claustrophobic, every way he shifts his weight wrong and uncomfortable, and then manages to step back with great effort.

Victor doesn’t let him get far. Holds onto him just above the elbow of one arm, head tipped to the side.

“Y-yeah,” Yuuri says quickly, nodding twice as fast. “Just…” _Does Victor know that? Does Victor know that? Does Victor know that?_ God, why had Phichit _done_ this to him? “Just a little… Winded.” He grimaces slightly, and hopes that it passes as a delayed response to his fall. It’s not a complete lie (he always feels a little out of breath, around Victor), but it’s not exactly the truth, either.

Is he all right? Yuuri doesn’t even know the right answer at this point.

Victor stares at him a second too long, something Yuuri can’t name passing behind his eyes, before he smiles.

“Feel a little better now?” He asks, and all Yuuri can manage is a nod—he’s so confused, he’s not sure if it’s the truth. “Good.” Victor’s hand slides down the length of his cardigan-clad arm until he can tangle his fingers with Yuuri’s. “Let me give you a tour.”

He draws Yuuri across the threshold, sliding the door closed behind them. Yuuri’s not quite sure what happens after that, as he’s assaulted with a full view of Victor’s apartment for the first time.

It might not be the sleek high rise in the heart of downtown he’d originally imagined, but that doesn’t stop it from being modern. It’s a loft, open and spacious, and Yuuri can see across the entirety of the apartment from his place at the door. It has to be three—no _four_ —times larger than his and Phichit’s apartment, and Yuuri vows, then and there, that Victor is never, ever, _ever_ going to see it.

“I picked up Mediterranean food for dinner, I hope that’s okay.”

Victor expects him to _eat_ here? The entire space is… Pristine. There isn’t even a dirty dish in the _sink_. If it wasn’t for the few personal effects strewn about, Yuuri would almost think that this was some sort of model apartment that Victor was parading as his own.

Except Victor doesn’t have to do that, because Victor can actually afford to live in a place like this.

Oh _god_ , all he can think about is the pile of clothes in his closet that he hasn’t washed. He’s pretty sure the pan he used to make himself eggs in this morning is still on the stove. There is definitely a questionable carton of milk in the back of his fridge. When was the last time he washed this cardigan? He doesn’t remember. He is wearing a dirty cardigan in Victor’s gorgeous apartment and he wants to _die_.

“Yuuri?”

He knows, he _knows_ , that Victor’s life is far more extravagant than his own. He’s seen his instagram. Not that he would need to, because he spends time with Victor, and that’s enough. Everything from Victor’s car to the places he takes Yuuri are practically outlined in gold. And not just plated, or leafed—actual, _actual_ gold, and here Yuuri is, getting his grimy fingerprints all over—

Victor’s eyes swim into his vision and Yuuri starts so hard he actually jumps backwards several inches.

Wow. Twice in less than ten minutes. That has to be some sort of record.

“I-” Yuuri casts his eyes around. “Sorry, I, that is, um—you live here.” Yuuri gestures to the space around him while trying very hard not to look at any one spot too closely for fear that he might lose himself again. He’s suddenly aware of the fact that Victor is no longer holding his hand and can’t quite pinpoint when exactly that happened.

This time, Victor’s smile doesn’t come back immediately. His face turns pensive, a finger tapping thoughtfully at his lips, before he turns away and continues further into his apartment. They’ve hardly made it past the front door.

There is a brief moment when Yuuri is struck with the idea to just… Leave. To turn around and slip out of the door and Victor’s life. It would be easier, he reasons, to disappear, than to fool himself into thinking that his world and Victor’s even belong in the same realm of existence.

_Does Victor know that?_

He does. He has to. Because it, this, _them_ … It’s not sustainable.

It was hardly possible to begin with.

“I almost didn’t, actually,” Victor says, glancing over his shoulder, drawing Yuuri back into a conversation he doesn’t remember starting. He doesn’t seem surprised that Yuuri hasn’t moved to follow him, but he stops, raising an eyebrow, and… Waits. His face is carefully, neutrally blank, and Yuuri isn’t sure what kind of test this is only that it feels very, very much like one.

His fingers are a nervous tangle of knots where he keeps wringing them together in front of himself, and he closes his eyes and thinks, _Aren’t we past this?_

He takes a breath and a step forward.

No. No. This isn’t something he gets past.

He takes another step. And another.

This is the same battle, fought every day. Over and over again.

When he’s close enough, Victor takes his hand again and smiles.

“Why?” Yuuri thinks to ask after too much time has passed, and realizes he’s asking several questions at once.

_Why did you almost not live here?_

_Why do you put up with me?_

_Why do you keep looking at me that way?_

_Why_ me _?_

But Victor only hears the first one, humming thoughtfully and disregarding Yuuri’s obvious delay. Not that it’s anything new. It always takes slightly too long for Yuuri to respond, a cocktail of hesitance and caution, but Victor—

Well, Victor always waits.

 _Why?_ Yuuri thinks, again.

“The windows.” Victor sighs, forlorn and overdramatic, and it’s almost enough to have Yuuri actively tamping down a smile again. “The other place I was looking at had these gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows. The natural lighting was to die for. Alas, it was a bit _too_ much concrete for my taste.” He gives Yuuri a look, as if Yuuri has ever even had a thought about too much concrete. Granted, he grew up in a costal town that didn’t have nearly as much infrastructure and concrete as Los Angeles, but he doesn’t think he ever looked around him and thought, _too much concrete_. He finds himself fighting back the urge to laugh, but just nods instead, letting the smile peak out once Victor has turned away again.

“I wanted something a bit more… Rustic.” He gestures to the wooden beams and the exposed brick wall that designates where Victor’s apartment meets the outside of the building. It’s a beautiful combination, but it’s hardly what Yuuri would consider _rustic_.

He wonders if this is how Victor is when he works. He clearly has an eye for things that Yuuri has never even considered, and an eloquence in the way he talks about it. His job title sounds immensely precarious, but clearly he must be good at what he does.

Yuuri isn’t even remotely surprised.

The apartment is so open that Victor doesn’t have to walk far before Yuuri can see all of it. It’s all one room, but Victor points out the immaculately decorated spaces and labels them as _the living room_ and _the dining room_ anyway. There’s another barn door, hanging from a cast iron bar, and Victor gestures at it with a flippant flick of his wrist and says, _my bedroom_.

_Does Victor know that?_

Victor’s bedroom. Yuuri is suddenly hyper aware of why someone like Victor would invite people back to their apartment, and his heart hammers against his ribcage almost painfully. It’s stupid, it’s stupid, they _aren’t_ dating, they’re barely friends, there’s no way—

“And this is the kitchen.” Victor concludes his tour among stained wood cabinets, marble countertops, and stainless steel appliances, and snaps Yuuri’s panic cleanly, before it can properly start to spiral. The faint smell of food has been present since he walked through the door, but now Yuuri can see the take-out containers, still nestled inside one of those generic plastic bags that says THANKYOU across it two dozen times.

Yuuri can’t help but think of the galley kitchen in his own apartment, the one that him and Phichit can hardly us at the same time without stepping on each other. They have no available counter space, every inch taken up with appliances, and if Yuuri wants to prepare any sort of food, all of his prep work has to be done at their very tiny kitchen table.

Victor’s kitchen essentially _screams_ excess counter space.

He presses his free hand against the marble, and it’s cool beneath his palm. It all felt a little unreal (not the marble, of course—that was certainly real).

“So.” Victor spins toward him suddenly, grasping one of Yuuri’s hands in both of his. “What do you think? Do you like it?” Victor’s eyes are so wide and earnest that Yuuri can’t help but stare into them. It makes his knees feel slightly wobbly, like they might knock together at any second and send him buckling into Victor’s hardwood floors.

What does Yuuri _think?_ He hardly sees how that matters, at all, but with the way Victor is staring at him, all expectant and eager and hopeful, Yuuri knows he has to answer. Has to say _something_.

He thinks… It’s amazing. Surreal. The tangible representation of a life that’s so far out of Yuuri’s current reach that he’s never even imagined it. _Impossible_.

…just like Victor himself.

“I think…” Yuuri starts. Stops. Averts his eyes. _I think I don’t fit in your world at all_. He looks back at Victor and forces out an amused smile. “That you are never setting foot in my apartment.”

Victor seems momentarily stunned by his response, and then is immediately pouting, a wheedling, “ _Yuuri_ ,” whining out of his mouth as he tugs Yuuri a few stumbling steps closer. “Why not?”

Yuuri furrows his eyebrows, eyes casting around obviously at the grandeur of Victor’s apartment before coming back to him. _Really?_ He wants to say, as if it isn’t painfully obvious.

“Because I live in a closet?” Oh. Oh _no_. Yuuri claps his un-held hand over his mouth, the skin chilled from the marble, like maybe he can scoop the words from the air and shove them back in. That’s the kind of thing he would say to _Phichit_ , not to _Victor_.

Something sparkles in the depths of Victor’s eyes, and he steps closer—still far enough away that Yuuri doesn’t have a complete heart attack, but close enough that his blood pressure has certainly spiked.

“Like Harry Potter?” Victor teases, reaching up to pull Yuuri’s hand away from his lips; he doesn’t even struggle.

“N-not nearly as interesting, I’m afraid.”

Victor might not be as close as he _could_ be, but he’s closer than he has been without the excuse of a hug or keeping Yuuri from injuring himself or, or anything like that. After the first couple days, he had—thankfully—realized that Yuuri didn’t exactly do so great with the constant up-close-and-personal stuff. So he took a step back, figuratively and literally. He still takes Yuuri’s hand more often than not, and Yuuri’s gotten better at letting him. He hugs Yuuri hello and goodbye, and while it had been… Difficult, at first, Yuuri is getting more comfortable with those, too.

And most of the time, the hugs didn’t linger. Victor seems to be able to feel the tension as it twists through his shoulders and knows when to take a step back.

But there have been times when the tension never came. When Yuuri had melted into Victor’s embrace rather than being hyperaware of every point of contact between their bodies. Those hugs only ended when Yuuri’s mind clicked back on, when he remembered where he was and what he was doing and who he was doing it with.

_Does Victor know that?_

If Victor thought any differently, surely there would be some indication of it. It had seemed like Victor had nearly kissed him before, after all—wouldn’t Victor have tried to kiss him again? Unless Yuuri had just been imagining things. That’s… Well, that’s completely believable. Yuuri has spent his life seeing things where they didn’t exist.

But maybe Victor hadn’t kissed him because he’d seen how Yuuri reacted to other forms of physical contact? That is also feasible. And Yuuri is kind of grateful for it. He isn’t sure if he’d even be able to kiss Victor _back_. He’d be just as likely to smack him across the face.

But if that option was revoked, then wouldn’t they have had some sort of conversation about it?

That’s what people did, right? Talked about it? Yuuri’s never dated anyone before, he isn’t exactly clued in to how it works.

But he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work like this.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor coos, voice dipping soft and gentle. He’s _so much closer_ , closer than Yuuri remembers him being. Victor runs his thumb over the dip in Yuuri’s chin, his nail just skimming the bottom of his lower lip, and Yuuri knows that if his knees weren’t locked they probably would buckle from the sensation.

God, he’s so pathetic. How is he standing here, in Victor’s apartment, with Victor, when he’s so pathetic?

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Yuuri can feel Victor exhaling against his cheek, and his throat feels weirdly dry.

“I hope you’ll let me see it one day, _zvyozdochka_.”

Just when Yuuri is certain that Victor will fall forward and into his own skin, Victor’s hand falls away from his face (and Yuuri feels a pull of embarrassment as his chin jerks to follow the touch) and he takes a step back, and another, until Yuuri finds himself inhaling deeply after far too many rapid, short breaths. His head feels light, and he finds himself gripping the edge of the counter to keep from suddenly toppling over.

When he can finally manage to look at Victor again, he’s smiling in a way that makes something tingle up the column of Yuuri’s spine, and he has to look away again.

Yuuri is so tumbled up in his own head, he doesn’t even remember what they were _talking_ about.

“We should eat.”

Harry Potter, and living in a closet, and _VictorVictorVictor_ and—

“What?” Yuuri’s eyes pinch as he remembers the strange sound that had curled out of Victor’s mouth. That had definitely not been English. Russian, then? Victor had said something in Russian?

“We should eat?” Victor sounds more and more amused. “You never did tell me if you liked Mediterranean food.”

“No, I—I mean, yes, I do, Mediterranean food is fine, I meant. Before.” Yuuri finds himself feeling a bit more in control of his body and mental capacities. He stands up a little straighter. He looks at Victor and doesn’t shudder all over. “What did you say before? In…” He’s not positive it was Russian. He’s pretty sure. He knows Victor is fluent, but that doesn’t mean he’s not fluent in other languages, and Yuuri doesn’t want to _assume,_ like he doesn’t think that Victor is capable of learning things in other languages, like Yuuri knows Japanese _and_ Latin and Victor has no idea about the Latin—was that Latin? No, Yuuri would have recognized it if it was and—he breathes. “Not English?”

There. That’s safe. That way he doesn’t have to embarrass himself by guessing that it’s Russian. Victor might _be_ Russian but that doesn’t mean he can’t speak other languages. Yuuri gives a small, self-assuring nod.

“Russian,” Victor clarifies, something coy curling at his lips.

_Dammit_. He was right the first time.

“ _Zvyozdochka_ ,” Victor clarifies, and Yuuri wonders if Japanese sounds that fluid coming out of his own mouth. “It’s…” Victor stops, humming contemplatively before turning to the plastic bag on the counter. He’s strangely silent for a few moments as he distracts himself with unpacking the take-out containers, and doesn’t look at Yuuri when he says, voice bright, “It’s a Russian endearment.”

A… Russian endearment? Yuuri stares at Victor, mute as he watches him unpack the food with nimble fingers, filling the silence with the sound of rustling plastic. As he pops open each container, Yuuri is assaulted with the dizzying smell of food, and he knows he’s hungry but he just can’t focus on it right now.

_A Russian endearment_ keeps ringing in his head, and then there’s Phichit again, but it’s not probing this time. Not teasing, not lilting, not mocking. But soft, and curious. Encouraging.

_Does Victor know that?_

“I got both chicken and beef shawarma, which one do you like better?” Victor smiles at him, barreling past the words he just said and the chain of thoughts they set off in Yuuri’s head.

He looks at Victor, at his offered smile, at the tension around the edges of it. There’s something wavering behind his eyes that makes Yuuri want to reach out and… Touch. Comfort.

It’s strange.

Victor has to know. He _has_ to. He has to know that they aren’t dating. It shouldn’t even be a question that warrants _asking_ , let alone answering. He’s Victor, and Yuuri is, well, _Yuuri_ , and nowhere in that equation can dating even be plugged in as a variable. Sure, okay, they spend a lot of time together—but so do Phichit and Yuuri, and _they_ certainly aren’t dating.

Which is weak evidence, because even at face value, his relationship with Phichit is continents away from whatever is going on between him and Victor. Yuuri loves Phichit like family, but he doesn’t want to _date_ him.

And even though he’d been aware of the traitorous thought since the first time he laid eyes on Victor, it’s still hard to think it.

He _wants_ to date Victor.

And not just because he would have to be blind and stupid to not be romantically interested in Victor. Victor is attractive beyond description, but it’s more like a roadblock than an incentive. Like maybe if Victor wasn’t quite so ethereal he might _actually_ stand a chance. ( _Ha._ )

But Victor is… So much more than that. _Means_ so much more to Yuuri than any of that. Is more than the cut of his cheekbones and the breadth of his shoulders. Yuuri wants to date Victor because of the way he talks about his dog, and the way every edge softens when he mentions his mother. Because sometimes he snorts when he laughs and doesn’t get embarrassed about it. Because he’s extremely passionate about food but can’t make toast without burning it. Because he chides Yuuri for eating poptarts for breakfast, even though his favorite cereals are the ones loaded with sugar.

Because Victor makes him smile, and laugh, and somehow lets the whole world fall away so Yuuri doesn’t have to think about it for awhile.

Because Victor is _patient_ with him. He never pushes. He waits. He opens his arms and he meets Yuuri where he is, even if he has to travel more distance to get there.

And Yuuri _wants_ , more than he’s wanted for everything in a long time. In a vastly different way than he’s ever wanted anything. He wants Victor, he can accept that, but…

But what does _Victor_ want?

He doesn’t know.

He’s almost terrified to know.

What they have is… Is good. It’s fine. It’s… More than Yuuri could ever think to ask for. Why would he go and ruin it by asking for more?

“Yuuri?”

The sudden touch to his arm startles him, and his eyes snap up to see Victor _right there_ , concern etched into the lines around his eyes and mouth. How long was he gone this time?

“What are you thinking so hard about?” There’s something wrong with Victor’s expression, something off, and his movement is jerky and cautious when he pushes some hair from Yuuri’s face. Yuuri doesn’t jump away this time, and Victor repeats the motion a bit more smoothly.

_You_ , he can’t and doesn’t say. _I want this, and never in a million years could I ask for it._

_For you._

It’s better if he just never asks. Then he’ll never get an answer he’s disappointed with.

(Right?)

It’s better to leave things as they are.

It’s better to stop worrying about particulars.

It’s better to keep them as just Yuuri and Victor and not complicate things with labels and questions. To stop wondering what he is to Victor, what _they_ are, when it doesn’t matter.

_It doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself, again and again, locked in Victor’s worried stare. _Just smile, shake your head, move forward, and leave this behind._

_It doesn’t matter_.

(Except that, sometimes, it does.)

“What are we?” The question falls from his tongue unbidden—too quickly, too suddenly, and Yuuri can practically feel the life drain from his body as dread holds fast to his heart. Oh no. _Oh no_. How does he take it back? He has to take it back.

Victor’s face goes blank, eyes widened curiously. His lips part—

“N-no, that’s not—” Yuuri stammers, shaking his head, taking a step back, but Victor has hold of his hand again, is gripping tight to keep him from backpedaling out of this situation in every sense of the word. “We don’t—we don’t have to be _anything_ , that’s not what I meant, I don’t—I didn’t mean to—that’s not what I meant to say.”

“Oh?” Victor’s voice is soft, contemplative, as he tips his head to the side consideringly. “What did you mean to say?”

“I—” Yuuri’s eyes widen, caught in his own lie. He hadn’t meant to say anything. He had meant to let the moment pass into oblivion and not destroy everything the same way he always does. This time, when he steps back, Victor let’s him go, let’s him create the space between them until his brain feels a little less muddled, his lungs a little less compressed.

“I think maybe I’ve been unfair to you, Yuuri.” Victor is speaking so softly that it’s almost like he’s talking to himself. But Yuuri can hear him, the apartment silent apart from the _thwump-thwump_ of Makkachin’s tail against the hardwood somewhere to his left.

“Unfair?” He mimics, confused and unsure, and when Victor smiles, it’s small and tight and apologetic, making Yuuri’s heart lurch.

“I had thought I had been quite clear about my intentions—”

“Y-your _intentions?_ ” Yuuri’s voice pitches up in panic, and his eyes flash to the ominous bedroom door. Oh god, _oh god_ , maybe he’d been reading the entire situation completely wrong, maybe him and Victor weren’t so much on completely different pages as in completely separate novels, maybe—

“—and that I was.” Victor pauses, and almost looks a little embarrassed, eyes darting to the side. “Interested.”

“Interested,” Yuuri repeats, dumbly, vaguely aware that he’s only been parroting Victor’s own words back at him. The silence stretches between them like a string, tense to the point of snapping. “Like…” Yuuri blinks, trying his best to wrap his head around what exactly Victor’s trying to say while keeping his anxiety at pay. “As a friend?”

Victor stares at him blankly for a few seconds before his face splits into a smile, easy and open, a hand coming up to cover his eyes and then to push his hair back. He looks… Yuuri’s not quite sure. Befuddled? Amazed? Somewhere between the two, maybe?

“Oh, Yuuri.” Victor’s eyes seem to sparkle, his expression warm. “You never fail to surprise me.”

_Him?_ Surprise _Victor?_ There must be a mistake there. Yuuri isn’t surprising. That would entail being unpredictable, or interesting. He can admit to being inconsistent, but that tends to be more of a bad thing.

Victor’s hand extends into the space between them for just a second, almost as if he’s reaching for Yuuri but doesn’t have any confidence in making that so far.

“Yuuri.” Victor’s voice curls around his name. “What do _you_ want us to be?”

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and his nerves feel like sentient creatures, thousands of electric insect legs crawling across the surface of his skin. The two yards of space between him and Victor feels miles wide, and he wishes Victor would breach it.

“Friends?” Victor asks, voice teasing, but there’s something _there_ , just underneath that, wavering behind his eyes. He comes closer without moving and—oh—Yuuri stepped forward. His bones are rattling in his body, but… He steps forward again.

Victor watches him carefully.

“Lovers?” Victor’s voice drops, becoming more intimate, and Yuuri swallows at the implication.

_All_ , Yuuri can’t help but think. _Am I selfish enough to ask for all of it?_

He’s staring hard at Victor’s hand when he gets close enough to grab it, and he doesn’t dare look away.

“I—” Yuuri’s voice sounds stale, and he he has to swallow again, take a deep breath, close his eyes. “I want us to be us,” he says, very quietly, because it’s the closest thing he can say to the truth. What they have, what they are—that’s more than enough. “I want you to be Victor, and—”

“Can I not be Victor and want to date you at the same time?” His voice twists in amusement.

Yuuri’s heart seizes in his throat, eyes flashing up to lock with Victor’s.

“You want to _date_ me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Victor answers without hesitation, voice emphatic as he runs his thumb over the curve of Yuuri’s cheek. The way he says it it’s like he can’t even believe that Yuuri is asking. (To be perfectly honest, Yuuri can’t quite believe he’s asking, either.) “But I think the more important question, my Yuuri, is if you want to date me?”

And Yuuri, because he is hopeless in these situations, _always_ , does the worst possible thing he could ever do—he laughs. Short and bubbly. A helpless giggle with a life of its own.

He knows that he needs to say something, _anything_ , before Victor gets the wrong idea—but he also knows that if he opens his mouth again, he’ll probably just keep laughing.

But Victor waits, his thumb tracing downright distracting trails along the side of Yuuri’s face.

He always waits.

And when Yuuri feels less like he’s about to fall apart in hysterics, he asks, voice low, “Is this a joke?”

“No,” Victor responds immediately. “In fact, I’ve been telling everybody about my boyfriend for weeks now.”

“Y-your boyfriend?” Yuuri feels his heart plummet.

“I meant _you_ ,” Victor clarifies with a soft, adoring smile. “I had thought—never mind. It’s not important. What is important, though, is what you want.” His hand is a warm, surprisingly grounding presence where it’s cupped around Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri is pretty certain that Victor can probably feel the rapid pulse of his heart through the contact somehow, but he doesn’t break the contact.

Victor doesn’t ask him what he wants. He stands there, nearly perfectly still, his blue eyes feeling endless as Yuuri stares into them.

What Yuuri wants.

It’s the easiest and hardest question he’s asked himself.

He looks down, staring at the tips of Victor’s shoes. He’s in his own home and still wearing shoes—for some reason, it makes Yuuri smile.

_What do I want?_

Yuuri traverses the remaining distance between them without thought, arms twining around Victor’s neck and chests colliding with such abrupt force that it almost sends them both to the ground.

But Victor steadies them.

Victor catches him.

Victor’s arms are a familiar weight against his sides, his hands a reaffirming constant against the small of his back.

_You_ , he says as he holds Victor close to him, wishing it was enough. Not sure he could make the words with his lips, could find the sounds in his throat to say them properly.

He can feel Victor’s breath against his ear, the rise and fall of his chest a steady, calming rhythm.

_I haven’t been fair to you_ , Victor had said. Maybe… Maybe Yuuri is being a little unfair, too.

He presses his face to Victor’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

“Victor?”

Victor’s nose skims the shell of his ear as he hums inquisitively, and Yuuri has never known a feeling that intimate.

_What do I want._

“Will you…” Yuuri’s mouth feels dry, and he presses further into the fabric of Victor’s t-shirt, holds onto him tighter. “Do you want to be…?”

He feels Victor chuckle more than he hears it.

“It would be my honor to be your boyfriend, my Yuuri.”

There’s a brush against Yuuri’s temple—Victor’s lips, maybe?

“T-that’s good.” If it was possible to burrow into Victor’s shoulder to somehow hide from him, that would be great. “Great. That’s—” Amazing. Everything. Wonderful.

Yuuri remembers when they met, their “first date,” thinks of Victor laughing and spinning in the street and thinking maybe he is feeling suddenly elated enough to do that.

“Great,” Victor finishes, voice soft, and he finally pulls away to look at Yuuri—whose face is no doubt a brilliantly embarrassing color, but Victor smiles at him anyway. Like he doesn’t mind. Like somehow, in this whole situation, _he’s_ the one coming out on top.

“Come. Dinner’s getting cold.” Victor leads them by linked fingers to the stools surrounding his kitchen island. When Yuuri sits down, Victor moves his stool impossibly closer so that they’re pressed arm to arm, and Yuuri can’t help but wonder if he just opened some sort of floodgate.

His eyes flick to Victor’s bedroom again, only this time he seems to notice.

“Maybe not tonight,” he teases, resting his chin in his hand. “Unless you’d like to see where I keep all the cranes you’ve made me.”

Yuuri blinks.

“You keep my cranes in your bedroom?” Wait. “You _keep_ my cranes?”

Victor almost looks offended.

“Of course I kept them. You made them for me.” The way he says it almost sounds reverent, and Yuuri has to glance away.

He hadn’t intended for it to become a _thing_ , and yet by the fifth time, Victor almost seemed expectant when they hung out together. When Yuuri has a chunk of free time, he sits down and crafts several cranes at a time, so they’ll be ready the next time he sees Victor.

But he hadn’t thought that Victor _kept_ them.

“Actually.” Victor’s eyes are sparkling, and he’s jumping up from his stool suddenly, striding away with purpose. Yuuri watches him go. “I got you something.”

“You did?” Victor just agreed to be his _boyfriend_ , Yuuri is fairly certain there’s nothing else he could possibly want for. He comes back with his hands behind his back, the smile on his face eager and painfully adorable. Makkachin is following along behind him, sniffing curiously at whatever it is Victor’s holding. Food? No, that doesn’t make sense—dinner is literally three feet away from him. Flowers? Isn’t that a thing that couples do? Then again, they’ve only been a couple for less than ten minutes, but hadn’t Victor said something about calling Yuuri his boyfriend for _weeks?_ Oh god—

“Ta da,” Victor says, presenting Yuuri with… A small square package. Yuuri stares at it for a few moments, before Victor prompts it closer and he finally takes it. It’s thin, almost like a book, and Yuuri glances at Victor curiously before sliding his finger beneath the neatly folded wrapping paper. It feels a little ridiculous that it’s even _wrapped_ , it’s not like today is any kind of holiday.

He hardly has the paper even partially removed when he realizes what it is, and he looks up at Victor with a start.

“It’s… It’s origami paper,” he says in a hushed voice, pressing the package to his chest. Victor smiles at him, and then his index finger taps Yuuri’s nose very lightly. It surprises Yuuri so much that he nearly falls backwards off the barstool.

“Now you have no excuse to stop making them for me,” he teases lightly, and Yuuri looks down at the package, smiling.

“Thank you.” It’s honestly a little overwhelming. It seems like such a silly gift, and yet Yuuri can’t help but feel emotional about it. This is something between them now, the paper cranes, and while Yuuri hadn’t fully realized it, it seems Victor had. He blinks rapidly, unable to stop smiling as he looks back up at Victor. “What color do you want today’s to be?”

He thinks of being a little boy. Of a thousand paper cranes, and trying to come up with the perfect wish when he finally finished. He thinks of countless cranes made from paper, napkins, unacceptable college rough drafts, folded together only to be crushed or tossed aside moments later.

After tonight, he’ll have made Victor 23 paper cranes. It’s nowhere close to a thousand, but… It seems a shame to stop now.

They might never make it, but maybe Yuuri’s secret wish is that they will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh. hi. guys. lol. sorry this took so long? I really did have the intention of updating weekly, but for some reason this chapter was just. really hard for me? idk. it was like constantly pulling teeth. over 7k of teeth, but teeth, nonetheless. so that, on top of school/work/multiple depressive episodes, it was just. not coming together.
> 
> BUT HERE IT IS. IT'S DONE. I DID IT.
> 
> you'll notice there's no picture (yet), but hopefully I'll have the picture tacked on in a day or two. <3
> 
> just to assuage any fears, I _will_ be posting other WIPs concurrently with this one. this fic is going to take a long, long time to get through, my dudes. and my attention span is all over the place. so I'll need other things to work on when this just isn't working.
> 
> I think the fact that I had to jump literally 21 days of character and relationship development to get here was one of my biggest obstacles, and I really hope that's not the trend, because that's kind of how the rest of this fic is written: as snapshots. and hopefully for you guys, as readers, it isn't too jarring to jump around.
> 
> ALSO! if you have any types of places you'd like to see them visit, or parts of their relationship explored, let me know. we have a lot of moments to cover, and I'll probably need the help at some point. <3
> 
> I think? that's all I have to say? yes. hopefully I'll have another chapter for you guys sooner rather than later. D; <3
> 
>  
> 
> [come and visit me on tumblr! <3](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com)


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